


Somewhere in Northern Italy - Oliver's Story

by BLUEFICTION2



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, POV Oliver (Call Me By Your Name)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BLUEFICTION2/pseuds/BLUEFICTION2
Summary: Told from his point of view during an unforgettable summer in 1983, Oliver (the man with no last name), through his journal entries and personal recollections, revisits his time spent at a villa in the Northern Italian countryside. A place where he develops a deep affection for the land, the people and more specifically, Elio Perlman, a boy with whom he falls in deeply love, transforming a summertime romance into one of the greatest love stories of all time.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Oliver's Story Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> Part One: Oliver arrives at the villa to pursue his doctorate thesis. That during his stay, he must share space with his host's son doesn't factor into any plans of romantic entanglement until lust jumps into the picture and all bets are off.  
> __
> 
> If I'm ever asked to pinpoint a time, an instance, a fucking watershed moment, where I knew and he knew, and I knew he knew, and all the knowing accumulated into one act of reciprocated knowledge - this would be it. 
> 
> Oliver – Summer 1983  
> __
> 
> Part One:
> 
> \- Later  
> \- Consciousness  
> \- Town  
> \- Linguistics  
> \- First Touch  
> \- Second Touch  
> \- Proem  
> \- Follow Me

Somewhere in Northern Italy  
Oliver’s Story - Part One

Summer 1983

__  
__

The beauty, the wonder of a foreign place, a special time, draws me in like no other; and the knowing it will forever remain in my memory, like other places I have traveled, has me anticipating my journey here to Italy. 

Oliver – Summer 1983  
_____  
__  
__

□ Oliver's Story - Part One  
__  
__

□ Later  
__  
__

I rouse myself as my driver takes me up to this big beautiful home in the Lombardy countryside that's palatial in nature, a family estate, run down to the point it needs some work, perhaps a lot of work (but don't we all).

Professor Perlman is there to greet me as I step into the dappled Italian sunshine, and my impression is that he and his wife seem hospitable enough as they joke about my height, and I respond as if I haven't heard that one before because it's paramount I play nice with the people whose home I will inhabit for the next six weeks.

The Professor, passionate about his work, is eager to jump right in; showing me the mounds of paperwork he has to be sorted and categorized or whatever he needs me to do. And because at the end of the day, I'm here at his discretion, I feel secure that I’m projecting confidence, and that the Professor has made the right decision in inviting me here. 

Annella, who has asked me to call by her given name because I would never presume do so without invitation, is attentive when she ushers their son into Professor Perlman's office. So when I first meet Elio, whose room I'm usurping, even though right now I'd sleep in a barn if it had a bed in it, I find him personable and polite, but I'm really beat and he’s just a blip on a radar screen that has so many fucking blips on it that I can't even process who he is right away. Although I think I detect a swimmers body, so okay maybe I noticed him a little bit.

His handshake is brief but firm, as if he has been schooled in refinement and poise in a way that most American kids his age don't seem to know or care anything about; even becoming my bellman, carrying my bags up the stairs, as if I was a treasured guest or maiden aunt, I'm not sure which; but in any case he's exceedingly polite.

And it's enough that I have to climb a mountain of stairs to get to a bed I so badly need, that when the kid's girlfriend sneaks in for this cursory double-kiss, I can't even enjoy it let alone determine whether she's pretty or not. But I do get the impression she's very much into my young host, and appears as hospitable as the family itself as she seems to be quite at home here; although the double-kiss threw me because I'm never prepared for those things.

I do notice the kid's got a lot of shit on the walls, but it's the bed that's calling out to me, so much so that I don't even remember collapsing, fully clothed onto the mattress, when the jet lag hits and I'm almost gone.

He rambles on about my room being his room as he wanders about, closing stuff, taking some of his shit away, hanging around, when all I want is peaceful oblivion. 

Then he rounds up the guided tour with shit about how he'll be next door, that we have to share a bath and how he can't get out any other way. Which frankly sounds like blah, blah, blah to me, but it's probably the crossing of too many time zones talking. That and the double Scotches I had on the train.  
__  
__

The kid’s polite and apologetic when wakes me for dinner, although I get the impression he's a little pissed by the fact that I'm desecrating his bed by crashing fully clothed on top of everything and not exhibiting the niceties he's probably used to.

“Sorry.” He says, after making a shitload of noise to wake me up. But I'm too out if it to even contemplate food, saying something about passing and making excuses to his mom as I groan and roll over with a, “Thanks man.”

He almost makes me feel bad about not engaging him in whatever he needs engaging in as he stands there, and I'm forced into a conversation I'm too tired to have; rehashing one more time the spiel about this being his room.

But I'm beyond any more pleasantries so I treat him to a dismissive, “Thanks.” 

And if he's not got the message, I punctuate it with, “Later.” 

__  
__

□ Consciousness   
__  
__

Morning arrives too early as find myself in the midst of a bucolic setting; birds chirping, cows mooing. And when I finally return to a complete state of consciousness, I reason this is probably the best place to get away and work my ass off at the same time. To finish up my book, my education, to consider my options; whether they are tangible or only metaphorical; those pipe-dreams everybody has of home and family and goals attained, of love and happiness and holding on to what you’ve got because you never know where life will take you.  
__  
__

Running my hand over an accent wall on the way down the stairs, I process the house as fucking huge and very tactile; all high ceilings, old tapestries and way too many rooms that are confusing to find my way around. 

I remember nothing of the layout from the night before, heading towards the front door when I hear the clinking of dishes from somewhere within the recesses of the house, so I turn back towards the noise, hoping to find my way through their labyrinth of rooms.

Professor Perlman, who must be accustomed to the eccentricities of his foreign students, offers a robust greeting when I join them for breakfast under the rustic pagoda as Annella, exceedingly polite like her son, graciously moves to the other side even though I've seem to have taken her spot at the table. 

Thankfully no one makes too much of an issue as I hatchet my way into a soft boiled egg, sending fragments of shell into the perfectly cooked yolk, and I've come to the realization I must be even more personable and on my game with people who confounded me by routinely switching from English to Italian to French and back to English again, often within the same conversation. 

The boy, their son, seems eager enough to help me get around as I ask about bank accounts and nearest towns; although he's probably well versed in this forced tour-guiding, this perennial shepherding of their summer visitants. 

Pouring myself a glass of apricot juice, I refuse another egg saying I've had enough, when in reality there's no way in hell I'm going to murder another one in front of an audience. Then asking Annella about her orchards, I feel the boy's eyes on me; he stares taking in the Star of David pendant around my neck; not a furtive glance but a long open stare that has me seriously wondering what's going through his head.

I don't openly stare back, although I wish I could, as I process he's a good looking kid, but just that; young, poised beyond his years, so that at times he seems older and then he does something obvious like stare and I'm reminded of the seventh grade when I had the biggest crush on Mr Hyndman, our English teacher.

I too stared at him under the guise of youthful arrogance.

So whether conscious or not, I find his attention unnerving and can't quite get a read on him; and even though he's definitely got my attention, I'm thrown and really don't know what to do about it.   
__  
__

Back in his room, I look more carefully at what he's got on the walls, the pictures and posters; wondering who he is, how he's become the boy downstairs. The boy who's teeth-clenchingly polite, the boy who stares unabashedly at my open collar, my pendant; the way he is one minute to the next, impersonal and then taking your person right into him.

__  
__

□ Town  
__  
__

For our journey into town, I am given a bike that’s dusty and old, and letting the kid lead the way, even though I could easily out ride him, he takes me over country roads, along a magnificent scenic route, winding through extremely narrow streets into the center of Crema. 

Then sitting at a bistro, me with a glass of wine, and him with some aqua coloured shit that he barely touches, I ask what one does around here, hoping he'll tell me there's something besides beautiful scenery and livestock. But I don't hear anything encouraging as he speaks about waiting for the summer to end; so I quip about how in the winter he waits for summer to come, but the kid doesn’t take the bait, continuing on about what holidays they celebrate.

We talk about his family's heritage and how they come back here for Christmas; although I thought his family was Jewish, and telling him that, am subjected to a story of how, besides his family, I'm probably the only other Jew to set foot around here. So I give him a spiel of my own about New England and how out of place one could feel, but I don't think he understands I'm not just talking about a person's faith.

I ask him what he does with his time and he responds with reading, transcribing music and swimming, adding something about going out at night where I can't help but envision sophomoric dances with posturing teenagers and cliques of pre-pubescent girls. 

I leave him then as I pursue a more adult version of fun along the lines of some heavy drinking, late night poker, and the availability of some local talent, because there's always local girls around who don't mind having a go at this year's shiny new thing. 

And I've been a shiny new thing enough times to know the ropes; to find one young enough, pretty enough, who doesn't mind screwing a foreign doctoral student like there's no tomorrow, but with the understanding there would be no strings attached. 

The warm body happens to be in the form of Chiara, who's a neighbour with neighbourly intentions. And even though I make it clear I'm going home in little over a month, she seems okay with the fact that there’s no chance of a serious relationship.  
__  
__  
__

Airmail stationery sits neglected in my luggage waiting for my words to come; somehow explaining or attempting to explain why I haven’t written, when perhaps a postcard would do. ‘Arrived safe’, ‘Love to all’ and something in the middle, that’s inconsequential, that means nothing, but that I’ve been trying to work shit out, that I still don’t know what I want, and no I don’t want to see somebody about it. 

And maybe someday before I leave, I’ll have something to say, but now, right now, I don’t. I don’t want to think about that now that I’ve found a distraction, someone who will take my mind off all the problems awaiting me back home.   
  
__  
__

□ Linguistics   
__  
__

In helping the Professor in his office, I take note when he makes an obvious mistake in his recounting of the origins of the word apricot; so I, in my vast knowledge of the subject, correct him in a flourish of intellect and hyper-bole, where he laughs, conceding my erudition of the topic as accurate. But then, preening in the knowledge that I've bested one more experienced than I, find myself outwitted in the realization it's a prank they play upon unsuspecting students like myself. 

The Professor, his wife and kid, are all in on it and I've come out of it feeling foolish and a little bit used for their entertainment, especially after making a smart-assed remark about it being a basic lesson of Philology 101. 

Their kid smiles when he gives me the news, and I can't tell if he's just amused or laughing at my expense, and above that, I've learned a bitter lesson in humility, in finding out it doesn't pay to assume any ignorance with these people.   
__  
__

I head back into Crema with their son in tow, taking him to my new favourite hangout where I've come to spend both my time and money playing cards with my new best friends. He sits at the bar like he's never been here before, and realizing that's probably true, I give him a nod that indicates he's welcome to join the table. 

But he doesn't play, he just watches the others. 

Not the others. Me. Elio watches me. 

He sits there watching; eyes hidden behind the dark tint of his sunglasses, just watching me.  
__  
__

And I can’t get Elio out of my mind as he takes in the table from under the veil of the Ray-bans; those hooded glances, camouflaged, but still so obvious, that have me wondering; my skin tingling; that has my defences up and my resolve crumbling down, as he chips away at walls built over years, eons of self-recrimination, self-doubt and wanting to please people that would never be pleased. 

__  
__

□ First Touch  
__  
__

Want is a curious thing: it transports you places your normal self would never take you. So I have to ask myself, when did I go from indifference, to like, to lust? Was it ever indifference? 

This feeling is like a genie in a bottle, popping out at the most inopportune times; whenever you think, imagine, wish it, and there it is, waiting patiently or not so patiently, anticipating your inner-most thoughts, even before you yourself become aware. 

But in this state, this cusp of awareness, this transitional stretch that goes on for fucking ever, or not when it takes you there in a blink of an eye, immersing your almost fragile state into a total fucking carnal fervor; there's this longing that envelops you, making each moment without the knowing a pure and total hell.  
__  
__

Summers at their house are full of young people wandering around the grounds; so when Chiara, Marzia and about half the teenage population of Crema show up for an impromptu volleyball game, I figure why the hell not, and enthusiastically join in. 

Elio sits away from the players, up on the hill with the rest of the crowd, wearing shorts but little else and I can't help but notice his chest, his shoulders, his arms; and the boyish charm he exudes beckons like a beautiful siren calling all suitors, both male and female, and I can't stop feeling the beginnings of attraction. 

Fuck, it's not the beginnings, but a full-blown, keep your dick in your pants; he's way too young, and basically the boss’ son, kind of obsessive deal that I have to keep under my belt. 

The game continues despite my distraction; and with Chiara all over me, I can't figure out what Elio's thinking as I feel his gaze upon us -- upon me. He's staring again. Even across the massive lawn, I can feel his eyes following my every move and when Chiara leaps into my arms for a hug, I have to ask myself, why am I still with her? Why with his beguiling glances that I can't ignore and can't leave alone, am I not pursuing this? 

So when he leaves the crowd to get water, I sprint over to intercept, taking the bottle, putting hands on him, touching bare skin; and for the first time consciously touching him. 

That cloaked shoulder, previously savoured in the town square, is now bare; naked to my overt manipulations; warm skin, touching, kneading, feeling him out, not up, not yet; I have to be sure; a proverbial reaching out. 

And when he shrugs away, I follow, putting both hands on him this time. 

No accident there. Deliberate as fuck.

But he shrugs me off again, stepping aside as if he's really running away but has too many good manners instilled in him that he feels obliged to stay.

I cover myself by calling over the girlfriend to placate his obviously rattled state as I then rejoin the others. But I'm still watching his reaction when he sprints off, as if I've assaulted his shoulder, this perceived rape of his sensibilities; like he's been walking through the woods and some wolf has jumped out to startle him, to take his virtue, to eat him up.

And I can't help but feel I've made a mistake; and it's twofold: a mistake in approaching someone who's not comfortable with my touch, my advances, who's not attracted to me. But I'm not often wrong and I don’t think I’ve have misread the signs.

Secondly, the biggest mistake of all: in touching him, feeling his skin beneath my fingers; the warmth, the fluidity of his muscles as they moved under my caress, the way his flesh felt against my flesh, the tingling feeling of first arousal, and knowing that even now, I don't want to keep my hands off him.   
__  
__

My mind can't quite get away from Elio as I now touch Chiara's skin, finding it soft and feminine; my hands on her arms, caressing her shoulders, playing with her top; running my fingertips under the straps to pull them up and off, and wondering, fanaticising how his skin feels. Would his breath catch like Chiara's if I played with his flesh, putting my lips to his throat, feeling it pulse under my mouth, my tongue playing with the chain he wears, licking the skin there before taking the links in my teeth, pulling it away from his body, pulling his body onto mine. 

__  
__

□ Second Touch  
__  
__

I arrive back at the villa in the heat of mid-day sun to find everything abnormally quiet; as if the house itself has taken a nap. Everyone must be in their rooms, including Elio.

And that's where I find him, enquiring why he wasn't swimming down at the river with everyone else; glossing over the fact that I had looked for him there, sought him out. But he's an astute boy, he'll get it. 

Elio lies in repose, warm, flushed, and now obviously in the middle of something.

'Just what were you doing?' I want to ask, knowing full well what he's been up to; where his hand has been, how hard his cock is, and that he was probably moments from coming into his boxers. 

He hedges when I insist we go swimming, saying, “Now?”, and I know for sure he's still hard, his distress palpable; embarrassed to be caught. 

Reaching across his body to pull him off the bed, I clasp his wrist, sliding my hand down to touch his hand, finding it warm, the one that's just held his cock, the one I wish I could be; enveloping his flesh within my flesh so I could be a part of him, this coming, this release, this barrage of emissions so often held in shame but that instead should be celebrated in glorious reverence. 

I leave him to change, my hand still feeling his hand, that moist heat, his essence transferred to my skin and I want to stop; stop and mark this moment, take account of the feelings, the sensations of lust I can no longer ignore; my senses overloaded with Elio. 

And I want to take my hand, put it to my face, feel the sultriness, hold it up to see if there's any sign of his activity; to smell him on that hand, to lick my salt and his salt, and any evidence that's transferred from his palm to mine. 

I want to go back in there, sooth him of his mortification, to replace his hand with my own, put my lips on his lips, whispering my attraction and, hoping against hope he will whisper his. 

I want to erase any embarrassment; covering his tumescence with my lips, my mouth, as he reciprocates with his lips on me. 

And that, if truth be told, is what I desire.   
__

I change in the bath, the door open so he might look inside and see me as I see him. See my body as I see his.

And in turning, I see him as he sees me; hastily covered in a rush of modesty that neither of us really have, giving Elio something more to think about; watching me as I pull on my trunks, hooking my sunglasses into the waistband; covering my cock like he covers his eyes; hidden but certainly not hiding.

__  
__  
  
□ Proem  
__  
__

Elio leans against the canopy, effecting a state of transparentness that in no way masks his intent; transcribing his music or doodling or writing a poem about us, or some shit, while I swim in the freezing cold water of their lap pool. 

He's wearing those damned sunglasses again, and headphones, although I know he's imminently aware of me when I make an elaborate appearance, rising out of the water in what I hope he perceives as God like fashion, swimming over as I ask him what he is doing. 

“Reading my music.”

But I know he's not.

“Thinking then.”

About me? I know he is when he replies about wanting to keep it private.

So why did he come out here? To watch me swim? To ogle my body? To pretend nonchalance that's as false and transparent as the rest of his excuses? To not admit what he's thinking as his eyes take in my every move, and I know he is; giving a false sense of covertness behind the dark tint if his sunshades?

He's really not going to tell me, or not ready to express what he's keeping secret, so ignoring him, I head over to join his mother. But he follows, immediately follows, pushing me aside but this time brushing the back of his hand against my bare stomach in what, at first seems like a proprietary gesture, but is really just a opportunity to touch; even for a moment, like when he tipped against me in the town square. 

An accidental touch, perceived as nothing more but we both know it was so much more, in a set circumstances where there's no such thing as accidents, touching or otherwise. 

__  
__  
__

If I'm ever asked to pinpoint a time, an instance, a fucking watershed moment, where I knew and he knew, and I knew he knew, and all the knowing accumulated into one act of reciprocated knowledge - this would be it. 

Oliver – Summer 1983  
_____  
__  
__

□ Follow me  
__  
__

I lay on the grass, listening to Elio play when I really should be working, reading at least, but I'm not; I'm listening to one of the most beautiful pieces of music, hauntingly played on his guitar. 

I tell him how nice it sounds, where he turns it around, telling me he thought I didn't like it, fishing for a compliment, when he really doesn't need one. Does he really need my approval; am I that important to him?

I have no words to describe how much I love this simple but elegant rendering; asking him to play it again, but he gets up, sets the guitar down, heading across the lawn to the patio and into the house with a cryptic, “Follow me.” 

I immediately get up to do just that; grazing his parent on my way; making him aware, asking permission to follow their son.

And standing on the precipice of something more, I'm astonished at the notes, the richness of his symphony, the musical genius that filters my way; his music drawing me in, enchanting me, even before entering the room. But it's different, and I tell him so.

Asking him why he changed it, I'm perturbed at the different rendition but secretly intrigued and amazed at the talent he portrays. 

He's transformed when he's at the piano, or is it me who now sees him that way? 

His playing is playful, animated, and the fucking sexiest thing I've ever seen, as we participate in a convoluted dance of pulling away and reeling back in, of his total control of my actions, my emotions, and I realize he's got me.

And then he does it all over again, only different; with more passion, more intensity, just more; and there's no way around it, no other conclusion.

No other course but to admit to myself.

I am ravished.

♡

__

□ FIN - Somewhere in Northern Italy - Part One  
__  
__


	2. Oliver's Story Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two 
> 
> \- Kind  
> \- Annella  
> \- Lady, Lady, Lady  
> \- Almost  
> \- Chiara  
> \- Lake Garda  
> \- Speak or die  
> \- Piave  
> \- Things that Matter  
> \- Berm

Somewhere in Northern Italy  
Oliver's Story - Part Two

Summer 1983

__  
__

□ Kind  
__  
__

Over the past few weeks I've come to appreciate many things about Elio: his intellect and musical genius being just a portion of who he is, because the kid has fucking charisma oozing out of every pore, pocket, and orifice he has; but he has another thing going for him too -

Kindness.  
__

On a day when the transcripts from my book make absolutely no sense, and I seriously doubt whether it should ever see the light of day, he exhibits that rare form of kindness that even I've been lacking towards myself.  
__  
__

Once again hidden behind tinted lenses, Elio reclines in a lawn chair as I, trying to figure out just where I took such a disastrous turn, lie in total discouragement upon the unforgiving canopy surrounding the pool.

Contemplating page after page of complete drivel, I call over, supposedly waking him, waiting an interminable amount of time until he's next to me to hand over the typed pages. So in my impatience, I begin to read ahead as he takes his sweet time, mumbling to himself, stretching, walking over in shorts and bare feet to listen to me confide how his dad will be disappointed in what I have written.

But I'm thinking far worse of myself: that I see myself as a sham, a charlatan, as someone unworthy of the lettered degrees after my name, let alone being here in Italy in the presence of his father.

And so he says something kind, flooring me; articulating something I would never have conceded - that at the time it probably made perfect sense, and that the passage of time, knowledge, and circumstance have now altered how I perceive the text.

(Or he's completely bullshitting me and I've been duped all along by the arrogance of my intellect.)

But I'm not just calling him kind, it's more than that, as I try to assimilate at which point in time did he cease being the child of my host, to become the one I go to for advice; and apparently affirmation that I'm not a total idiot.

And that's not the only thing on my mind, when did I even consider the advantages of asking his opinion? And since when did Elio's opinion become so important?  
__

He stands there, glasses off, in all his youthful glory, listening to me bitch about losing confidence in myself. But when I finally give up the papers, he returns his shades to read the result of my incompetence (eyes hidden against what?). And I hate when he does that - hide behind the darkened lenses, not letting me see what he sees, what he thinks, what he thinks I think, of him and of me.

But either way he's being exceptionally kind and I tell him so, when in his confusion, he repeats the word, as if puzzled by my use of such a banality and I am humbled by his charitable turn of phrase. Because when I think of kind: boy scouts helping old ladies, firemen rescuing kittens in trees, the urge to help the disadvantaged come to mind, and I have to wonder, am I like that, have I become one of those to be pitied?

That is something I'd definitely rather not consider as I lay here, my work in chaos, my mere existence cluttered with indecision, and Elio my only tether to reality, cementing our connection, by my use of such a simple word as 'kind'.  
__

So I take it as a sign; whether I've admitted defeat or as a deviation into the unknown, as I submerge myself, rolling into the frigid water, dropping off the ledge into the pool that feels like a plunge into uncharted waters from the glaring reality of Elio having seen me implode in a way I've let no-one else observe; and perhaps subconsciously taking it as a distillation, an immersion of sorts in recognizing his fledgling importance in my life.

__  
__

□ Annella  
__  
__

Looking back, it was shortly after that precipitated immersion when Annella and I had a very personal conversation. And I don't know why, but I understood even then that we were talking about something far deeper than Elio's friendship with a graduate student.

She'd been picking flowers from the garden, a bundle of fragrant blossoms on the table, when she uttered the words no man, grown or otherwise could refuse of a determined and matronly figure, 'Oliver, please, sit with me.'

We talked of Italy, the Professor, my work, his happiness with my work; we could have talked about a million things before settling on the one topic, the only topic that mattered.

“Elio seems quite happy to have you around.” She stated, and I really couldn't have predicted where this was going, so I stuck exclusively to the truth.

I told her how hugely talented I thought he was, how he should have gone out more, be amongst people his own age. How he was probably the smartest kid around, and that he had something about him that drew people in but that he didn't know it yet, or at least didn't know how to use it.

I told her he would play to adoring audiences, in legendary concert halls, then joked they could probably retire early with what money he would be bringing in.

But I never told her I liked him, within a friendship or otherwise.

I probably rambled, and gushed more than I intended but everything I said was fucking true.

And in the end, she hugged me, holding me close, saying words that haunt me even now, 'I think you will be good for him.'  
__  
__

In retrospect I believe her words meant so much more than my ability to make him happy. Annella in her mother's wisdom, knew however this went, however this panned out, that Elio would be forever changed over the summer and that perhaps she was telegraphing her desire that I could somehow be a part of that journey.

But Elio was far more self-actualized than I ever was then (and if truth be told, perhaps even now), innately knowing that having the capacity to accept who you are; who you are inside and what you show the world is unquestionably the greatest gift one can be granted.

Oliver - January 1984  
_____  
__  
__

□ Lady, Lady, Lady  
__  
__

Dancing in a traditional pairing feels right. It's safe, sanctioned; something of which even my parents, their parents and all the parents of my past who judge, not only me but the world I live in, would approve. So wrapping my arms around Chiara, I sway, and feeling skin that's soft, curvy, female; I hold tight not only to her, but the image it represents.  
__

I watch Marzia follow Elio around like a besotted puppy as they carry their drinks through the discothèque and over to sit down with the others, and I wonder is that what I do, am I like that? Because I'm never that person, the follower, the admirer, the one who people whisper about, who's totally fucked; and I ask myself, does he know? And if he does, why in God's name is he doing this?

So I kiss Chiara; bending to kiss, to be kissed, knowing my actions, my advances given, are reciprocated in an enthusiastic way; and I feel better knowing that if I were to stay and cultivate whatever is happening here that I could be happy. And that happiness, in this particular form, and whether I embrace it wholly or not, is indicative of the circumstances of which I could perceive a trusted and tolerated relationship.

And that slow and romantic stays within a certain comfort zone that says safe.  
__

But when the music changes and becomes a faster beat, more basic, rhythmic, primal, I leave my safe pairing to dance on my own, finding a freedom not found anywhere but here.

I dance as the person I wish I could be.

Uninhibited.

Completely free.

Letting the music take me as it plays Love My Way, a song I absolutely adore; that speaks to me like no other. But it's not my mind I want to follow, it's my heart.

My eyes close, my face tips to the night sky; spinning around where I conjure up Elio in my kaleidoscope dreams; my whole life spinning to a point where I feel a loss of control, but can't or won't for the life of me, want to make it stop.

So turning my back to Chiara, I watch Elio dance, doing his own thing, taking Marzia’s hand to hold onto her. And it makes me wonder if he's just mimicking what I'm doing, or does he really have feelings for this girl.

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□ Almost  
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How did we fall backward so far and so fucking fast?

I can't say whose fault it was (Elio), and we both have to share some of the blame, but I can only speak for myself when I say it was a ripple effect. That one thing led to another and next thing you know Elio's talking about fucking Marzia (not fucking-Marzia but stick your dick in her fucking Marzia).

And if I was a betting man, and I am, I couldn't have predicted that conversation, because I would have lost big in that game with neither of us showing our cards, and Elio fucking dealing from the bottom of the deck.  
__  
__

Mastering the opening of the egg, I sit confident in my accomplishment in my designated spot at the table next to Elio, where he thinks it's appropriate breakfast conversation to brag about almost having sex with the girlfriend last night. And even though he's speaking to his father; and he would contest this, it's expressly for my benefit; he's really telling me.

I glance over to see his father's reaction, not really facing Elio as he tattles; not showing any sign that it matters, only turning to him when I speak about failing to seal the deal; where he jumps right in saying she would have been willing, so I, in pretended boredom, tell him to try again later.

But this confuses the fuck out of me. Will he do this, and why do I care if he does? (And that's not the only pertinent question.) So I ask myself, why? Why drop that little nugget of information when he and I both left with our girls last night? Why tell me, and yes it was me, that it didn't happen, but that it could have, that it was up to him, that it didn't happen because of him.

Then I also have to ask myself: what's so difficult about this? It was obviously his problem, not hers. Something he had to work out; that he's still working out. That it's something within him, something that he's been dealing with, or perhaps has dealt with, but like the situation with the girl, he has neither the conscience nor the courage to pursue; and if that is the case what is he planning to do about it?

So when I said to him, better to have tried and failed, to try again later, and he jumped all over it saying she was willing but he just needed courage to reach out and touch; I have to wonder if he's trying to tell me something deeper and more personal than can be recounted at the fucking breakfast table.

Something even he can't quite comprehend; fuck, even I can't comprehend this thing that's happening, that I'm beginning to maybe believe in; and I haven't believed in much that's not within my control, and I do like control.

That something that takes your heart and runs with it as you hang on for dear life, taking you over every obstacle, hurdle, and through fucking every mud hole, until you either find what your heart desires or die trying.

But the bitch of it all is in the knowing. Knowing when you've found the one and when to give your heart (and in my vast experience, when to let go).  
__

But if he's just fucking around and messing with me, messing with people's feelings, he's going to learn that one-upmanship can be a bitch; that nobody wins and people get hurt. And that if it's the game he's going to play, he's got to be prepared to lose.  
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His mother questioningly calls over from the flower bed she's attending as the Professor becomes the dutiful parent, summoning up more compassion than I, to cover for him. And as she passes by, lightly touching me, I perceive a subtle change to our dynamic as I'm finding Annella's been much warmer since our talk; a pseudo mother figure and far more intuitive than I find comfortable.

The Professor changes the subject, inviting me to go along on his excursion to Lake Garda but declining to include Elio (until he whines and bitches enough that daddy relents with the stipulation he must remain silent).

I ask the Professor if this was because Elio's been too free with his opinions or if he's been letting things slip. And it's no accident I've phrased it that way; the opinions part I can live with, but letting things slip could be disastrous for us both.

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□ Chiara  
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Chiara enters the villa for an unprecedented visit minutes after I've finished conferring with the Professor, and it's transparent enough that I can spot Elio's fingerprints all over it. I'm not exactly pleased he's now taking it upon himself to run my love life; overstepping in assuming I might have wanted her here. And this, at a point when I'm weighing as to whether it's time stop seeing her, which I have to admit has already happened, because I'd stopped seeing her, really seeing her, the moment I started to succumb to Elio.

It wasn't subconscious, it wasn't deliberate, it just happened. Chiara was still around but she really wasn't there for me anymore.

And then he does this, throwing her my way, fuck, throwing us together, like he's trying to chart the un-chartable, like he's a fucking matchmaker taking charge of a situation, plotting any involvement I choose to have while I live in his room, fucking sleep in his bed.  
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Doesn't he realize what hell that can be? Lying there night after night, touching what he's touched, smelling his scent on the sheets. Fuck I smell his old bedspread, his pillow, and my cock twitches at just the thought of him coming onto those linens.

His cock, hot and aroused the way these kids are every waking moment, fuck every moment waking or not, always ready, always randy, here on this bed, these sheets, pushing or pulling or whatever the fuck he does; making me hard and ready just thinking about it. And I wonder if there are there traces of cum on this particular pillow or did he take it with him and this is another pillow entirely?

I open his closet and there he is, enticing me to touch, to smell, to hold his garments against my face, my nose, my lips, and I fucking want to wrap them around my cock and know he's there holding me as I rub and stroke and cum into remnants of his essence, mingling my own scent with his, and by extension him.  
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But in his sending Chiara inside, I find that I must continue being a good host, if not boyfriend, because I made it clear from day one that this was not going anywhere, and now feel obligated to cultivate a dying relationship that was just for show in the first place. What I mean to say is, it wasn't going anywhere, even before the possibility of Elio ever came into the picture.

So I'm considerate and charming and more than a little pissed when we emerge to find Elio waiting by the car like he's been clocking the time we were alone.

I get in, leaving him there, because there's no way in hell I'm sitting next to him at this point. But then he starts this territorial pissing contest, insisting that's his father's spot; that I'm to move, relegated to the cheap seats in the back; and once again I'm forced into having a conversation I'd rather not have.

His face is a blank canvas of disinterested, and yet curiously talkative indifference, bragging about how beautiful Chiara is and that he's also seen her naked (hoping perhaps I would kiss and tell), all the while drumming his fingers on the roof, talking of shit he has no business talking of.

But I'm ready to take him on; not taking any of it as I tell him in no uncertain terms that it's none of his fucking business. But he's wearing those damned glasses again and I can't see his eyes, see what he's seeing, tell what he's telling, because I know he's fucking telling me something, and he's not good at fucking trying to hide it.

So I counter with my own glasses, telling him two can play this game, as he sits in smug enjoyment of my discomfort, thinking he's won, but it's just a preliminary round, if he wants a fucking fight he's got it. And if he's going to throw Marzia in my face, I'll fucking throw Chiara in his. And fuck the fallout, because there's always fallout.

And I'm pissed he's committed to dragging those girls into something they never asked for.

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□ Lake Garda  
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I ride shotgun on the way to the dredging site, conversing with the Professor, ignoring Elio who's brooding (sulking really), in the backseat. And all along the drive I feel him there, eyes boring into the back of my head as the adults in the front discuss what an amazing find they have brought up.

And in the excitement of the find, it becomes harder and harder to maintain the sullen mood he's put me in. And I'm feeling like a kid in a candy store as we walk past neglected ruins to approach the shore, the Professor talking adamantly as Elio keeps his distance on the opposite side of the pillars.  
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The Professor and Elio are greeted with remarks on how much he has grown, and I speculate he's either quickly had a massive growing spurt or he's been banned from sites like these for some time; and something tells me, the time away is most likely of his own making.

His father picks up the recovered relic, and while examining the intricate workmanship Elio touches the bronze fingers before the Professor offers the arm over to me. And holding it reverently, I run my hand over the smooth forearm determining the statue must have been near life sized; having an almost ethereal feel to it.

I then look up at Elio, who’s smiling and I smile back as he, in a complete about face, waves a white flag, offering his hand, indicating not a surrender but a truce. So I take it in the spirit it was intended, extending not just my arm but the statue's as well because I don't want this day to be about fighting, but of new discovery.

And I've got to say the discovery turns out to be fucking awesome.  
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We rock in the tiny boat, awaiting the raising of what emerges as an exemplary specimen of sculptural art.

Although it may be one of the four sets after the Praxiteles originals, all I see is a young God being brought up on the stabilizing board; because that's what this is: a magnificent rendering of a boy who, on closer inspection, looks much like Elio.

The figure is the spitting image of the young God currently hunched over beside me touching the statue's chest as I (completely mesmerized by the similarities), run my fingers in reverence over the glorious profile of the lost boy.  
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And if this lost boy and the one beside me are one and the same, I reason it was not just the extension of my arm Elio was holding, but his own arm as well. And it is my hope that he's just not making peace with me but with himself; and that it will finally be an end to all the bullshit that's been happening.  
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Elio spends the drive back from Lake Garda bitching about how late it is; that he has something to do, and at his father prompting, he admits he was meeting Marzia, and that as long as she was willing, he would try to take another shot at her, or something to that effect, although those were probably not his exact words.

And when the Professor inquires if I'm going to the river as well, I say I have work to do. But his offer of heading out for a drink is too tempting, and I really only said the stuff about working to further impress the man who has so generously helped me along some really rough roads literary wise.

And really, after the day we've had, I'm definitely up for a drink.  
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I find I'm ultimately spending more of my free time away from the villa, drinking and playing cards well into the night, hardly seeing our budding Lothario, but hoping he will at least be safe and not get the girl pregnant.

Then one morning, after coming back from a late night out, I find Elio playing the piano. Such beautifully graceful pieces that make me want to sit and listen, even if I don't enter the room, lounging on the divan in the hall as he practices what is already perfection.

I read my book by Heraclitus, taking in his genius while I review the passage about the river flowing and things only staying the same by changing. And taking notes, I acknowledge how wise that statement is; how profoundly accurate, even now when my life is changing in ways I have no control over; and I can only hope that whatever path this takes me on, turns out as poetic as the passage in the book. Although in my experience things can go to shit in a mere blink of an eye.  
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There are now instances when I have to concede I actively seek out Elio's company; where I could be found wandering through their yard, over their vast lawns of pure pastoral beauty looking for the boy. And even in that part of the day when he's nowhere to be found, I'm forced once again to entertain myself, where I'd actually prefer to be in his company because, to be completely truthful, he's fun to be around.

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□ Speak or die  
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I sit on the edge of their pool, dipping my foot into sunlit water, where to the unschooled eye it would seem just that, a cooling down but it's become something more, and there's no getting around the fact that I'm considering taking chances I never would have attempted back home.

So in the spirit of companionship, I contemplate asking him to join me when I go into Crema, because there's a chance I'll have some errands to run, and let's face it, I'm getting fucking bored with aloof and moody Elio, while I generally enjoy being around the boy.

All the while he's sitting there pretty as you please, regaling me with the tale of a 16th century French romance his mother read to him about a knight who's conflicted as to whether to speak or die, and all I can think is Annella knows! She sees through me better than Elio does, and fucking knows I have intentions towards her son.

Intentions that are in no way honorable, carnal would be a better word; as if she was privy to what I did in his room. The way I luxuriated in his closeness, his scent, going into the other room, looking for signs he's cum on that bedding, hoping he's thinking of me.

But she can't really know that, I'm just being paranoid. But I do wonder how much she's aware, how much does she see, and how fucking much am I letting other people see. Do others in the house know? Am I that transparent, is he? And if so, I don't even want to think about it.

But I let him go on because it looks like he's trying to say something, but not; dancing around some romantic bullshit that I'm not ready to talk about; that I may never be able to talk about, and for the life of me, am not even sure he wants me to talk about.

And I know the story, you don't get through the education I have and not read classic literature, even if it is from the fifteen hundreds.

I ask him flat out if he speaks, but I'm not able to face him, afraid of what he might be telling me, just waiting. And it's easier to hear this without looking, without eye contact, even though he's returned to wearing those damned sunglasses.

But Elio, in an about face, tells me the knight fudges, and it's obvious he can't seem to get past it either; although I'm fucking relieved he's letting this go; more relieved than I've been in a long time. What would I have said to that? What could I say, when I don't even have the courage to put my own feelings into words. And I'm sure I've said it before, but it bears repeating, he's a brave little fucker.

So I change the subject, telling him I have to pick up some things, where he offers to go instead. But that's not what I'm getting at: I want him to accompany me; I want to invite him to come along with me into Crema.

But he has to jerk my chain, pretending a blasé indifference when asking if I mean right now (as if I hadn't just mentioned it a moment ago).

Where I bounce the ball back into his court with a salvo of my own; that he wouldn't be able as he might have more important business going on. To which he comes back with a mumbling response to my baiting that I have to admire, because it takes balls to be that audacious in light of my taunting ridicule.

And what he says is so damned cheeky that I don't just want to throttle him but throw him over my shoulder and dump him into the pool. But if he's really trying to tell me something, being an asshole is probably not the way to get him to open up.

I instead toss back his indifference, casually asking if I can put my papers in his bag, to which he agrees, with an impudent, yet still cheeky addendum of please. He's still so fucking polite, where I don't think he's ever been out of place or impertinent in front of company, well not since he was a toddler anyway.

He keeps up a genteel distance as he gathers his bike and I mine from Anchise, where I explain about the cycling accident I had; showing him the raw scrape on my side, lifting my shirt, waiting for his reaction.

And he doesn't disappoint, when I go on about the gardener tending my wound, seeing me injured, as Elio looks back at him, trying to imagine a circumstance where Anchise would be touching my skin, essentially seeing me naked, and me allowing that to happen.

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□ Piave  
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Stopping on my first errand, I leave him to hold my bike, knowing I've got my papers in his backpack, ensuring he's not going anywhere; much like a husband leaving shit in his wife's purse, only not, but you know, whatever works.

I emerge, offering up a Gauloises; cupping my hands near his face as I light it for him; looking at him through two sets of tinted lenses and finding it doesn't bother me as much anymore.

I'm more attuned to his physical cues, this complicated dance we're effecting, than watching his pupils dilate indicating his arousal before his cock even knows to show any kind of enthusiasm (although I do miss looking into his eyes).

And telling him the cigarette's 'not bad', I mean so much more than that, because it's not a commentary on how much I'm enjoying it, but a thinly veiled question.

He throws that same line back at me before stating he didn't think that I smoked; where I tell him that I don't, all the while thoroughly enjoying the French cigarette; where in reality, I don't often smoke the traditional kind, French or otherwise.

But that's not it at all; it's a connection, something we do, something I've taken on because of him. It's a reason to lean in and get close, knowing he's enjoying the same thing.

And I temper my actions to his as I match his long inhale, holding it, savoring it, letting it transport me as I await the exhale.

And don't tell me this oral exercise isn't fucking sexual; the sucking, the holding and finally the release; the heady feeling of the stimulant hitting your bloodstream that makes even an already rapid heartbeat, course just a little bit faster.

It's oral and provocative and something you partake after sex. Not at all like the more mellow reaction one gets with weed, where it's more of a preamble, getting you ready for the quintessential fucking experience of joining with another; of taking that other human being into you and giving back the same. That - and it tends to relax certain orifices, ensuring a more pleasurable experience.

But I digress; it's only a fucking cigarette after all.

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□ Things that Matter  
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Elio knows all kinds of shit. He's a fucking walking encyclopedia, educating me on First World War battles I've never even heard of, let alone knowing the statistics of those battles (170,00 people died, and he says it as if the whole world knows this but me). And when I tell him how fucking smart he is (he's got to know this right?), he denies any superior knowledge, where I tell him he knows more than most.

So he goes on to says some shit about the things that matter. And taking a breath I ask the question that's been hanging over us since before Lake Garda, hell even before that.

We both knew when he played the Bach variations, and he can fucking deny it all he wants (but why the fuck would he), that there was more than music appreciation going on. So I ask him straight out about what things that matter, instead of my more visceral reaction of 'what the fuck are you getting at'.

He replies that I know what 'things', emphasis on the things, turning it into a not so subtle petition for affirmation of something I've kept hidden even from myself. And I demand to know why he’s telling me this because I've suspected for a long time but I need him to spell it out; he, Elio, has to say it, because there's no fucking way I'm going down that road on my own.

So he tells me it's because he thought I should to know. And I try to sound incredulous, repeating his declaration back at him in the form of a question, asking him just fucking why it so important to him; because that's where this is all heading.

I make him clarify just why he's imparting this information, where he's in fact fucking propositioning me, just so there's no doubt about where he's going with this (as if it hasn't been on my mind every waking moment - fuck every moment period). But it's not any fucking news to me, because I've been invariably dreaming about this for as long as I've stayed in his room.

This whole exercise has been about, because I 'wanted' you to know, and there it is, plain and simple.

And as he repeats it several times, I make my way around to the other side; Elio mumbling over and over, giving me time to gather my thoughts; where he deems it's the right moment to ramble on, telling me he can't say this to anyone else but me. And I know for fucking sure he's not just admitting an attraction but something more; he wants me to know that he knows; that I'm not just an infatuation but there's a fucking chance I might feel the same way.

I ask him if he's saying what I think he's saying because I have to be sure even though there's no way in hell this is happening here. And as Elio rocks back and forth in front of me, it's like he’s admitting he's broken into the cookie jar; only it's far more than a fucking cookie jar, so I tell him not to move while I head inside to retrieve my typed pages.

His announcement that he's not going anywhere cements this out-of-body experience I'm having; affirming he's not going to leave this alone, and making sure he too, knows that I know. And his words mean more than he's not leaving the square, as it hits me he's covertly attached himself to my life and I'm not sure that I mind.  
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I exit the building with a fucking mess on my hands, talking about nothing, hoping he will let it go to a point where he laughs at my plight saying he shouldn't have said anything; shrugging it off so the both of us can breathe easy again. And I've been given a way out, hoping we can just pretend he didn't just say; or fucking imply what he's implying.

Then he jokes about being on speaking terms but not really, and I have to make it clear that it means we can't talk about those kinds of things, so don't go there, because we just can't.  
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Handing him the papers to put in his bag and reeling from all the implications of his declaration, I lean there for a moment as he mounts up to ride off. And I feel like I can't breathe, that he's mule kicked me in the gut and I'm about to pass out or throw up (although I'd never do any of those things let alone admit to them).

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□ Berm  
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I let Elio lead the way as we furiously peddle in a race that's less about competition than erasing the anxiety of our previous fucking awkward and delicate conversation.

And as I easily overtake him (although it's a hollow victory), I'm soon winded, realizing he's been holding back, that he's stronger than I thought; and apparently bent on assuming I'm now on board with whatever happens next.

He's so animated and excited that I'm compelled to go along and savor the splendor of the day as we cycle down this strikingly picturesque road to wherever he's taking me; this place Elio's leading me, this place that's a secret (although frankly I've had just about enough of his secrets).  
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I follow him over a rough country track to this scenic berm where he neglects to mention how fucking freezing the water is; instead rambling on about how it's his spot, and I get that, but holy fuck the water's cold, like tiny liquid icicles that feel like shards of glass against my sun warmed skin.

But determined to man up, I dip my hands in the water like it's refreshing instead of feeling like I'm bathing in the belly of a glacier; where I exhale, taking in his spot, the place only Elio ventures to immerse himself within the imaginings of what right now seems to be the unimaginable. So revelling in the fierceness of a perception he shows no-one else but me, I'm compelled to take on subject matter that is best left behind closed doors.

And he goes balls to the wall, playfully approaching not only me but, within the parameters of a fucking slippery dialogue, the thing I've buried deep within my existence; but then he seems hesitant as if afraid he's over stepped in this with both myself and his proposition.

So I tell him I like the way he says things, but that I don't know why he's always putting himself down. He must know he's doing this, that this self-deprecating shit isn't right, let alone flattering; where he tells me it's so I won't come at him first.

But I don't do this (I haven't - have I?). I know that I'm sometimes hard on him but it's not an intent to demean, only to encourage him to speak up, because he's intelligent and well-spoken and I want to hear his opinion, and that it results in him teaching me something every day; whether it's about shit I don't know or shit about myself.

He steps right up to me when I ask him if he's afraid of what I think, getting in my face, staring me down, challenging me, and that's where he makes me fucking uncomfortable, demanding I revisit our conversation from the memorial; something I'm not ready to do again, even though he's probably right in doing so.

I tell him he's making things very difficult for me; and he, knowing exactly what I'm saying, is not going to let it go.

I'm reminded of an encounter, not that long ago, although at this juncture it feels like a lifetime has passed, where I affected a coerced massage of an extremity; his shoulder no less, nothing really and not anything near this personal; that forced him to run away, just as I wish I could do now.

But then that's when he gets bold and physically accosts me, jumping onto my back, trying to pull me into the water, as if within this submersion a conversion of sorts would materialize, and that being dunked in frigid mountain water would somehow help me come to accept a behavior I've been denying for most of my adult life.

And I'm not letting that happen as I struggle against this physical confrontation that's disguised as simple horseplay; but frankly there's nothing simple about it.

So exhausted from our efforts, we crawl up on the grassy bank, flopping down on our backs, and with our faces to the sky we lay there, silently taking in the beautiful day, the bucolic setting, the sereneness of a moment that did not start out fucking serene (and the ramifications of what was said and more importantly, what was not).  
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Elio sighs, saying he loves this, where I pretend to misunderstand, asking what he means; just what is it he loves about 'this', and what exactly 'this' is. To which he replies that it's everything.

Not satisfied with his answer, I scoff, pushing him further by asking if it's about us; searching not for a compliment but an unequivocal understanding that 'this' is what we're talking about and it's not just the pretty scenery or the fucking weather.

But Elio doesn't relent while he understates the obvious, telling me 'this' thing we have, that's budding into something more, is not 'bad' and I'm transported out of my body, having no control of my actions to where I'm considering what 'we' would be like and if a 'we' could even be possible.

And God-damn-it I'm going there, because I can't help but gaze over at him. And Elio, at this very moment in time, resembles not just himself but the beautiful statue, the lost boy who, if I fully admit, takes my breath away and creates a sexual tension that hasn't dissipated one iota since I first heard him play; fuck, since the very moment I stepped out of the taxi and met this remarkable person.

So I lean up to look at him, admire him. And I fucking do admire him, as I take in the luminescence of his skin; reaching to brush my fingers over lips that are warm to the touch as they open up into a sigh; feeling the moisture of his mouth, not impersonal and cold like the statue but hot, so fucking hot.

Cradling his jaw, I urge him to look at me. And as he leans up, I tenderly touch him, his lips a mere decision away as we trade breath, welcoming him in a way that denotes yearning; a yearning that has not been just his but mine as well.

And as he licks my mouth in unexpected courtesy, like he's knocking at my heart, seeking entry to consume any and all of my misgivings, I find I cannot deny him any of this.

He moves in and his kiss takes away all my hesitation except my guarded determination to keep this light. Then he goes one further, dissolving any of my deliberated maneuverings as he takes my mouth with his; and it's not light or insignificant but something more that's thought provoking and unexpected.

And I know he will see this gesture, this knocking as tentative, but he's wrong; it's sweet and daring, and luscious, and so fucking sexy. And I know I have to stop as I feel like a marauding voyeur into the inner longings of his soul, fuck, the inner hunger of my own.

It's as if I've broken down and gone window shopping for something I'm not sure I want, something I know I can't fucking afford and something I ultimately won't want to give up.

So I say 'better now', treating him like a child so I can justify being the grown-up addressing this teenage lust he's experiencing, that if truth be told, I have the same, and where I feel I should put a stop to this before anyone gets hurt.

But Elio doesn't let me, taking my mouth again; taking control, coming up and over top, pushing the envelope, tearing down my resolve to finish this before it gets started. So I tell him no, no, no, no, and that we should go, to which he comes back with one word that surmises everything, 'Why'?  
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I tell him, I know myself; that we've been good so far, not doing anything to be ashamed of; telling him I want to be circumspect; speaking from my head, not my heart.

But he's bold and audacious and so fucking evil when he puts his hand on me, holding, gripping, moving it over to capture all of me and I'm certainly not offended, keeping my hand over his for a moment longer than is proper.

His hand set in my lap, gripping the shit out of me, has me hot and ready to flip him over and take him right here on the berm. And I want desperately to press his hand closer, rub me harder, take me out so he might stroke my cock before putting those soft lips over and around, taking me into his warm mouth, the mouth that was on my mouth, that tastes of me and him.

I imagine his tongue that so deliciously licked my mouth, which tried to tunnel inside as I, with great restraint, had failed to engage as I wrangled with both our bodies and emotions. And I imagine it slipping out to tease to tickle, but it's not happening and there's nothing either of us can do to change it.

His unspoken 'why' has me telling him that I know myself; only it's not a mangled egg in my hand that makes me fucking uncomfortable, it's my balls in his. But it's a similar circumstance where I'm out of my depth with something that makes me feel like I'm riding a wave, just waiting for it to crash. And this sink or swim analogy can go one further, with not even setting one foot in the ocean in the first place.  
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I can fully imagine the lust he's experiencing, that if truth be told, I have the same. And feeling responsible, I know I have to put a stop to this before anyone gets hurt; because I don't want to compromise him in any way or rush him into doing something he'll regret later or perhaps the most daunting conclusion of all, of him fucking hating me forever.

But in this self-serving and highly magnanimous gesture, I have to ask myself, am I protecting him or am I protecting myself?

□  
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□ FIN - Somewhere in Northern Italy - Part Two  
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	3. Oliver's Story Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three 
> 
> \- Culpable  
> \- Epistaxis-Bermum  
> \- Discretion  
> \- Escape  
> \- Silence  
> \- Note  
> \- Waiting  
> \- Desire  
> \- 2 O'clock  
> \- 10 O'clock  
> \- 11 O'clock  
> \- Midnight  
> \- 'call me by your name'

Somewhere in Northern Italy  
Oliver's Story - Part Three

Summer 1983

  
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Becoming responsible for something you did not initiate, shows weakness of spirit, lack of fortitude and certainly poor judgement (or so I’ve been told); but in this particular instance, I believe accepting ownership is required; although by this time it's really just splitting hairs. 

Oliver 1983  
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□ Culpable   
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Elio was inordinately quiet on our ride home from the pharmacist, which at the time was a welcome reprieve from the intensity of our exchange on the berm. That - and I didn't need him rehashing shit that I hadn't yet processed; and by processed I mean, trying to figure out what the fuck happened. And even though it wasn't unexpected, it wasn't something I anticipated he was likely to initiate. 

There were days when I felt confident there was something going on, something he was about to divulge (or not), and times when he seemed a bit intimidated by me. And I know I'm guilty of that kind of behavior (in exploiting his reluctance to come forward and discuss), but I think perhaps I influenced the way he felt he ultimately had to come out and actually say it.

Although that's not exactly true, because he shows more nerve than I ever would have given him credit for; and he's fucking tougher than I would have thought, because being an only child in a sheltered environment doesn't necessarily spell intestinal fortitude. And I've also got to give him one more thing, when Elio sees what he wants, he has no qualms about going after it, and by it I mean me. 

Being the target of this obsession (and it's beginning to look like the grand-daddy of them all, owing to the brashness of his actions on the berm, which I must admit threw me at first because it felt like a fucking ambush), can be considered rather flattering except for the fact that he knows, he fucking knows. 

But this is not just happening in a vacuum, because there's no way I can claim being the fair maiden here, and I have to concede I'm just as culpable as he. Even though it was the impetus of his delivery that started the ball rolling (and it showed fucking balls to say what he did), I really don't believe anything would have been said at the piazza if it wasn't for him. 

And I wanted it to be him, Elio, who made the first move; because I wasn't about to go declaring undying love, or in this case lust, for someone who very well could have been overwhelmed, let alone appalled by the prospect. 

But was I really that way? Appalled no, but certainly overwhelmed.

Because after the little non-starter of his: saying that no, the knight didn't have the courage to declare shit about anything, he goes and hits me twice in a row, not just verbally but emotionally and physically. And no, I wasn't the victim here, and I may have wanted to believe I was being discrete, but there were signs that a perceptive kid like Elio could not help but see for what they were. 

And if I'm being honest with myself, and that is becoming easier in this landscape, I was trying to draw him in; and in as much as I want to deny (and fight) this feeling, I couldn't be more convinced this needs more consideration.

But he's had a head start in all this. 

Okay yes, I've been thinking about it, but he's the one who came forward and said something. And it's a bit like when it's the end of something, and one person has thought about leaving for awhile, the other person is typically bewildered by the onslaught of feelings they've just started to process.

His attentions may have been something I've craved, in that it sparks that certain 'Je ne sais quoi’, which I've been suppressing so far in my stay. And that my head may be saying no, but my heart is chomping at the bit to be an enthusiastic supporter of his attentions. (Well not just my heart, but other regions of my anatomy as well.)  
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And speaking of other regions, my balls were killing me after his little stunt just before we left; having his hand, fuck, his fingers wrapped around me when I was already hard from the kisses we shared, his tongue in my mouth, and him knowing exactly what he was doing; not just playing with me, but drawing on emotions that were already flying all over the place.

And not being able to do anything about my physical dilemma was not something I would recommend before hopping on an uncomfortable bicycle seat to visit the pharmacist, then proceeding to travel back home to be greeted by mom and dad and their luncheon guests.

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□ Epistaxis-Bermum  
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It's with those very luncheon guests that I have Elio sitting at my end of the table while we play a not so subtle game of look away, then sneaking sideways glances back at each other, all the while trying to appear vaguely interested and tuned in to the conversation. 

And acting like I'm understanding some of what's going on (but my Italian is not the best), I'm not completely sure if the woman arguing with her husband has just called me stupid. Which I'm going to blame on the fact that I'm a teeny bit distracted by the lad to my right who's driving me crazy by just being there. 

And Annella, who's a big part of the debate, keeps checking on her son and the visiting American student (because that's how I was introduced), as if she were party to our shenanigans on the berm. Almost like she has special insight, and I guess she probably does, he's her kid after all and she's got to be tuned in to how he acts after he's just propositioned, fuck, accosted the ‘foreign student from America’. 

There is no way the Professor doesn't know what's going on either because we've got to be setting off bells with the parents (even if they weren't so consumed with their guests). But while he seems distracted, Annella appears to be on to us; the looks she's giving me are not just idle interest in whether I'm included in the dialogue, because I can feel every bit of her uneasiness vibrating down the length of the table.

Then all of a sudden Elio grabs his napkin and there's blood everywhere as he quickly leaves, running inside to do whatever he does in circumstances like this; Annella explaining to their guests that it happens all the time (but in all the weeks I've been here, Elio hasn't once had to deal with the minor irritation of epistaxis). 

And when I later enquired if I was responsible (which he adamantly denied), I knew differently because if we're weren't up on the berm earlier with all the drama and physical shit that ensued, we wouldn't be calling further attention to ourselves by the fact I caused him to have a fucking nosebleed. 

So yeah, I think I've got something to do with this. 

I figure he knows what to do but I've got a dilemma on my hands, whether to stay and listen to the rehash of the day in politics or check on Elio; so it's really no contest as I make my excuses to the table, heading inside to see if I can find him because I couldn't just sit there with my conscience screaming at me that it's all my fault, that I did this to him.   
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Annella watches my hasty retreat with a mother's eye, even though no one else is checking on the boy, I wonder if this happens so often that Elio is now left to his own devices in dealing with his ailment on his own. But I really don't know shit about these things, so who knows, he may just get ice and sit quietly until the bleeding stops. 

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□ Discretion  
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I find him on the floor, the fucking hard floor in the vestibule. And when I ask if he's okay, he invites me to sit with him in the cramped area off the bar; where I try to keep it light, because if I sit that close to him after the time on the berm, the guilt that I've somehow caused this (been the catalyst of this affliction), is enough for my innate sense of responsibility to take over, where believe me the last thing I need is to take on the care and feeding of a sensitive and horny teenager.

But he insists it's not my fault, although I know he wouldn't be holding ice to this face if we hadn't had our conversations this afternoon. 

So joking about the mess, I keep it light, easing his embarrassment as I manipulate his foot in some voodoo reflexology that my bubbe taught me; having the audacity to tell him to 'trust me' because it helps; when sitting this close to him is perhaps not in either of our best interests. 

Elio plays with my collar as if it was his right; especially after baring his soul, the closeness he's forged ahead of me - I mean if he can grab my crotch I guess he's entitled to play with my neck. Then taking my star in his fingers, he tells me he used to have one but no longer wears it, going on to say something about his mother and discretion, so I tell him it probably works for his mother, but what I've left unsaid is that he's his own man and he should do whatever the fuck he wants.

Within this vein of inappropriate behaviour, I roughly crack his foot where he reverts to his old self, calling me a son-of-a-bitch (although he would swear he said something else), and it's good to hear him laugh as it takes the edge off the seriousness of the day. 

He clenches my shirt in his fist as I get more intense with the foot massage, and I can well imagine his hand against my bare chest, fingers playing with my skin, traveling lower. And it gives me pause to wonder if that's what he's like when he comes, given that he sure as hell looks like he's on the brink of something, telling me I'm going to kill him if I stop, grabbing onto my forearm as I reply that I hope not, because I really don't want to kill him, just give the little death he seems to crave.

Because when it's said and done, it's all about lust.  
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And as if I haven't played with enough fire, I run my hand over his shin, lifting his foot up towards my mouth, not for a moment thinking about consequences (of what I am doing and what I have done), to press my lips right there when really I should have fucking known better. 

I can tell myself it was only a kiss to his foot, nothing to get excited about, but why the fuck did I do it in the first place – because it was to ‘kiss-and-make-better’? How fucking pathetic is that! Not the kissing part, but the lame-assed excuse. And it was exactly that, an excuse, because I wanted to do it. 

There. I said it. I fucking said it. I wanted to do it; and the fact that I did, changes everything. I initiated it. It's on me and only me. 

By kissing his foot, it’s become me who is leading him on, and I feel I should now take a giant step back, because I know I can't do it again.

I want to. Holy fuck, I want to. 

And there's the fucking rub. 

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□ Escape  
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I feel badly about leaving Elio in the villa, but I'm not his mother or his girlfriend because there she is, and Chiara too, as if he's sent out a fucking bat-signal for the two of them to come comfort him like he's an invalid and not one of the lost and hurt boys. 

Chiara tells me to wait for her as they hurry in to check on him, but there's no way I'm sticking around when I can't control my actions, or assimilate how I feel about Elio; let alone dealing with all the shit that comes with, not an unwanted, but unplanned paramour. And I wonder if I’m referring to Chiara or Elio, or them both.

So I'm gone, cycling as fast and as far as I can, away from everything that's happening both within those walls and inside of me. Because my brain is in fucking overdrive and any decision, poor or well thought out, healthy or disaster in the making is beyond any comprehension right now. And my instincts are telling me to fucking get out of Dodge and for once I'm listening to my own advice. 

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□ Silence   
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It's been days since I've seen Elio; being purposely absent to the point where I've timed my returns long after the house has gone quiet; sneaking up the stairs like I've got something to hide; where in reality, taking a break, putting in some distance, really hasn't accomplished shit.   
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I enter the darkened bath, moving around by memory and the dim light filtering in from the moonlit sky. And pissing away the excesses of the evening, I find a harshness in turning on the lights as I'm about to shower; illuminating the glaring image of Elio asleep in the adjoining room. And it feels like I’m consciously exposing myself, both to the naked eye, and to what is still brewing between us. 

So closing the door has become necessary, not just for modesty sake (because that's a fucking non-issue), but I've come to the conclusion I can't be leading him on. It's not right and I am trying my damndest to do what's right. 

And Elio leaving his light on as he pretends to sleep, is not going to change my mind, so I'm not going to take the bait (because that's what he feels like right now), and go in there to fucking tuck him in. 

I'm not.

And the closed door, however inconsequential, cements my resolve and becomes a barrier to giving in to what I know in my heart will change us both. Because I'm not right for him and he's fucking not right for me, and having my heartstrings manipulated this way, disappeared long ago with wet dreams and adolescent acne.

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□ Note  
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I’ve found I’ve been absent on more late nights than not; and coming home to pass out fully clothed on top of the covers (like I've been jetlagged for days), has become the norm. And the fact that the Perlmans’ have not taken issue or said a word as long as I'm there to help the Professor when he needs me, has me thinking this is what I should have done with my free time from day one. 

No getting attached, no entanglements, keeping things clean and simple, so that when I go home to America I've got my priorities straight. 

And even though this strategy seems to be working out well, one morning, after a long night of getting shit-faced and playing poker until all hours, then once again passing out on top of the bedspread, I wake up to a surprise having been slipped under my door. 

_____ _____ _____ _____

Can't stand the silence. 

Need to speak to you.   
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I read it again, trying to decipher the meaning from the frantic words. 

(I mean it's pretty straightforward but you never know with Elio.)

So feeling the need to investigate, I carefully open the door, and noticing various crumpled up pages discarded on the floor and in the waste basket, I scour his notes to read sheet after sheet of pleading and imploring script that has me seriously wondering why Elio is supplicating himself. I mean this can't be real, or even healthy.

And I'm worried not just about him, but for him. And he's right, we do need to talk. 

So I propose a meeting, letting him see that I recognize these agonizing declarations for what they are, but telling him to grow up because I'm not going to deal with a school-boy crush if he wants me to even consider meeting him at midnight. 

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□ Waiting   
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And in this waiting, this time between the anticipation and the knowing, I reflect on the changes he has cultivated since our meeting on the berm; the resurgence of the girlfriend, who was perhaps always around but lately seems increasingly so. 

And the star. Let's talk about the star. 

It's something he hasn't worn until recently; something he's adopted since our intimacy in the vestibule; a symbol not just of heritage and faith, but of consolidation, indicating an alliance not yet sanctioned by both parties. 

Worn perhaps in the hope it would be noticed, perhaps acknowledged; where the reality hasn't become quite what he anticipated, resulting in the haunting of frequented places, the inquiring of others (who know nothing of my activities), and all that culminating in a note. 

The note.

The frenzied writing, the panicked words, and the attitude.

The fucking attitude.   
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His bicycle wasn't there upon my return last night; his room, vacant and dark; and I, exhausted from a remarkably profitable evening, was deeply asleep when he finally decided to get his ass home.

Knowing he got in after me, I was then completely unaware of his little meltdown and the scribbling of his insecurities onto the notepad. 

And it’s become obvious he has either been acting out with Marzia or taking that poor girl places she many not have chosen if she was more attuned to this obsession that's irrevocably tied to what is going on here.  
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When I finally run into him on the stairs, I teasingly enquire if he's had a good night, and I understand enough in his response to know that he's pissed; his dig at me, aimed at what I've been doing or more to the point what he thinks I've been doing. 

The Professor innocently asks if he's also been out playing poker, and Elio replies in a tired voice that he doesn't play (but I know exactly what he means), and I also recognize it as another slam at me and whatever-the-fuck he thinks I do when I'm not home by bedtime. 

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□ Desire   
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Professor Perlman and I then head into his study to catalogue the incredibly sensual slides he's received from Berlin. And even though every one of the statues are extremely alluring; looking at them, the casts of those beautiful men in what has become a testament to the ages, all I can envision is Elio. 

The Professor admires the statues saying that they are impossibly curved with ageless ambiguity; that they dare you to desire them; and I'm still so fucked up from last night (and Elio's frantic note) that I'm compelled to acknowledge his enthusiasm with what I hope is construed as casual interest. 

Because, even if he seems like an indulgent parent, I don't think he would in any way sanction what I'm about to do. Although what I'm about to do is still up in the air, I haven't solidified any plan (if there even is one), only that we need to talk and maybe that's all that will happen, but meeting at midnight, presents the assumption of something more. 

It's more than, 'let's discuss this', more than ‘just talk'; because if this is what he really wants, who am I to refuse or to challenge the course of what we both desire.

So yes, I do want this. 

I shouldn't for many reasons and there's no fucking way I can put this on him, not solely anyway; not fucking at all. And I keep telling myself it's because of him, but it's not all on Elio, it's me too, and what we could be together; because there's something more than simple attraction going on; and I know what it is.

I fucking like him.

And if it wasn't for Elio, and his crazy messed up infatuation, I'd have to admit to myself I still would be intrigued, be drawn to him, even more than I ever was attracted to Chiara. And saying that, none of this would be happening without him because he is the only reason why I'm considering this - doing this - whatever the fuck this is.

So it's not a matter of fault where there is no fault involved; but there is reason, and he is solely the reason for this meeting at midnight. 

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□ 2 O'clock   
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Two o'clock rolls around, and sitting at their luncheon table I can't help but yank Elio's chain just a little bit harder by asking him to check the watch I see him surreptitiously eyeing for the umpteenth time. 

But he seems on a mission towards something else entirely as he puts on this pissed off act, apparently because he's been asked to wear a shirt he claims to hate; telling his mother that he'll only wear it if I approve; when if truth be told, I have no plans to be here this evening, let alone pick out his wardrobe. 

And I'm not going to sit across from him at dinner, like it's any other dinner, waiting for midnight. Because this eventide to eclipse all the eventides that have occurred up until now, has made it so any chance of close proximity during this punctuated waiting is not in anyone’s best interests and definitely cannot be done here.   
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So, this conversation we're having, that Elio is dragging me into, can't be over soon enough, and the only reason I'm still here is the unfortunate circumstance of helping the Professor right up until the afternoon meal.

Because if left up to me, I'd be spending this time beforehand somewhere else; not here, not anywhere near here. And why I chose midnight, a time of too many excruciatingly long hours away, that seemed reasonable at the time but now with the looming of the event, not even yet happened (and even in its infancy is rife with reasons not to happen), has me fearing this ill-fated rendezvous will somehow come back to bite me in the ass.   
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Abandoned at the table, I'm itching to flee before Annella decides to have another heart to heart, because in her motherliness, viewing me almost like a son, she's developed that dreaded, and frankly unnerving, ability to see right through me. 

My parents' aren't like that; they don't probe, they intimidate; they ignore what's going on because it couldn't possibly be. There's no way it is happening because they taught you it couldn't, and how dare you question the way things are done, or not done, because that's the way it is; so buck up, fall in line and don't fucking ask questions. 

But this family is different, and in their acceptance, I feel I must tread lightly, treating their son with every single consideration and every aspect of kindness he deserves. And there's that word again; and through that, I know I can gain great understanding from his family who by extension has become mine.  
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I head out on Anchise's old bicycle, away from the fray towards other arenas; mainly to I can keep my distance from Elio and inquiring minds until I can return under the hiddeness and the sanctuary of nightfall. 

That time of day when I can be anywhere; wandering the grounds even; an inconspicuous presence in the shadows with no one the wiser if I choose to sit in solitude, contemplating my book, my work, my life, my fucking existence in the world, and as of early this morning, Elio's existence in mine. 

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□ 10 O'clock   
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So in this solitude, I sit on the balustrade overlooking the pool, water shimmering in the pearly glow of the moonlight, that beckons, calling out to contemplative souls like myself; singing the songs of the night owls that populate the region with their lonesome calls, the cattle lowing in the fields not so far away, the flies that have gone quiet but are an ever present reminder of this affected isolation. And even with the symphony of that veiled chorus, I feel a loneliness here. 

Although what I battle these nights does not come from any allusions of homesickness, because you have to miss a place (or a someone), to attain the appellation of being homesick. And for anyone who asks, being lonesome, lonely, or choosing to ponder the mysteries life while perennially ensconced in this very private corner of my consciousness, are not one and fucking the same. 

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□ 11 O'clock   
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The night air has stilled, allowing the melody of Elio's genius to waft from the open windows; beautiful haunting music that, if I didn't know better, could best be described as that of a siren summoning to those at sea, 'come closer and listen to my song' (with no indication of the perils of the rocks below). 

And in attending that call, I discount any foretelling of impending disaster; those persistent variables that plague my consciousness, warning me to tread lightly; to stop, turn away; to go back in time, erase the invitation, regain the status quo; and in doing that, there’s no untoward behavior, no consequence, and no one gets hurt.

But the desire to make this something more is just too great; so on my journey inside, I pause to listen before silently heading up the stairs; knowing I've done all I can do, and he can come or not come, but nevertheless I will wait.

And in that time, my mind wanders into dangerous territory, pondering all those asinine clichés that apply for momentous occasions such as these. And I know of the ridiculousness of those adages that are scorned in their caricatures, but there's truth in those old bromides’; because the human spirit, in all its complexities has a fucking ghoulish sense of humor.  
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I don't get nervous. It's just not a part of who I am. To become nervous means you doubt yourself, are ill-prepared and perhaps shouldn't put yourself in the situation in the first place.

Oliver 1983

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□ Midnight  
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I stand on the balcony, waiting; watching as Sonny and Cher or whatever their names are, drunkenly get into their car while the Perlmans' good naturedly wave them off; telling myself I’m enjoying the night air, when it’s my nerves that have driven me out here. Nerves that have become intensely acute, jumpy even; although under normal circumstances I’d never let them control me this way, or dictate how I conduct myself in any other instance but this. 

Because it matters, not just to Elio and to me, but in everything I’ve built with this family. They’ve entrusted me with their son, and even though he’s an individual into himself, he’s theirs; he belongs, and by extension now so do I, and anything that happens between us, here tonight or during my stay, happens to all of us.  
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Smoking a joint helps in times like this, it smoothes out the edges; but that strategy falters as Elio approaches the railing, and I've got to say the weed has done little to calm my nerves when I've come to the inescapable conclusion that something will happen tonight. 

We're not just friends, we're not just talking, and yes this is it. 

And I'm glad he showed up, because I'm just as invested in this as he is.   
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So as I cover his hand with mine, feeling the warmth of his skin; surreptitiously caressing his knuckles under the guise of comradery, he admits he is nervous. And I am too, but not about this. 

This is right. This is good, or it will be once all the bullshit hysteria is out of the way. 

It's more about taking care, being gentle with him; not just his physical self but his emotions which I know from experience, have to be a huge part of it all. And he may not know or understand, because all he feels right now is desire, but it's a big fucking step (one that I hope will be pleasurable and not off a fucking cliff). 

But he pulls away, and my apprehension returns as I follow him inside, letting him lead the way so there's no doubt that he's on board with this. And I will go anywhere he takes me, and I'm forever grateful he's taking me to my room, his room; creeping along, so as not to alert the household as to what’s about to happen. 

He is keeping it light, which is good, as he takes a drag from the joint before I have a chance to offer (was I?). And when he tells me he's okay, I envelope him into my arms, knowing it will be fine; kissing him, teasing him by touching my lips to his cheek, his forehead, his neck while he reacts by trying to climb my body which is awkward and funny and sweet and all of those things individually and combined into what I will later remember fondly as our first time. 

But I want to slow us down, savor the moment; and because he’s special, I don’t want to fuck this up.  
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Elio's breathing hitches as he inches his bared foot over to cover mine. And sitting side by side on his bed, I find it to be one of the most arousing and anticipated moves so far, all the while mimicking his advances (however innocuous) with my own foot to play with his; where he's become so damned serious about this that I have to enquire (in jest but with a bit of trepidation too), if we're headed for another nosebleed. 

Which then provokes the unanticipated, but eminently welcome response of him getting up on, climbing to tower over me; pulling me into him, taking the lead. And I can't stop it now (not that I want to), because once I get the scent of him, bury my face into him, there's no way I'll be letting him go. Then grabbing his neck, I kiss him, really kiss him; his hands in my hair, breathing in each other, inhaling my own breath with his and I find again that it's become so much more. 

When I'm finally able to kiss bare skin, I press my mouth against Elio's chest, his stomach, and I need to be naked now, right now, and he needs to be naked as well; where he throws himself onto the bed, relinquishing himself not only to me but to desire - his own and mine.

Pulling at my own shirt, ripping it off if need be, because this thing, this sense of urgency, consumes me now; I then straddle his legs, luxuriating in the moment, the sound of my belt flying through the loops, gratifying, music to my ears; the roughness it exudes, making this less a deflowering than a coming together (because if I focus on the fact that he's never had a dick in his ass, this may never happen; and I fucking want it to happen). 

And soon all the previous bullshit nervousness has flown out the window as passion, fucking passion takes over where I can hold him against me and kiss him exactly the way I want to. Leaning over him, I grab the last of his clothing, pulling it off; and he feels so good, this skin on skin, lips on lips, our cocks rubbing against each other; and he's so fucking hard right now, his arousal rivaling mine, where I try to slow things down but there's no way I'm going to stop what we both want more than anything. 

Covering him, I regain the upper hand, and I'm finally able to look into his eyes without any of the shame or awkwardness I’ve felt since the berm. And what I feel at this very moment cannot be diminished by all the voices in my head which over time have tempered my behavior; denouncing the intimacy we are experiencing (or by becoming a narrative no one needs to hear), making it public when it doesn't have to be.

The tangible, sharpness of what I'd hoped to blur; this keenness of emotions, transports what we're doing, what we are, into vivid images that play in my mind as I go through with something where we can both fervently participate in what I can only describe as, wanting. 

And the pureness of being with him outshines whatever I could have anticipated in my imaginings of this very moment; transcending any former interpretation of past experiences that also makes this very new for me. 

In a way this has become my first time; whether it was with a man or a woman. And what I'm experiencing at this moment has no comparison, no equal remembrance; and we're not weighing the magnitude of what we're about to do, but subconsciously (because who the fuck does this consciously at a time like this), taking indelible snapshots to savor in the twilight of our rememberings.

I gaze with wonder into his face, admiring his eyes, the cast of his mouth; his lips, swollen from our kisses, slightly open, waiting for my own mouth, my lips, my tongue; and this force encompassing the two of us, is more; just so much more than I ever could have imagined.

And taking his mouth, I slip my arms under his knees to position and prepare. To take him, not as like the others, strangers in strange places that became anonymous to my attentions in both their existence and the arrangement of our bodies. Those nameless, faceless encounters, that I've since forgotten, erased from what could have become a tally but now is seen as a precursory, a preamble to just this. 

This thing that any participation I've had before, seems a binary seeking of an undertaking and exploration, which in one way I've become grateful for, because without those comparisons, I would not know what we have here is special. 

And in those especial times, when my head was screaming in denial and regret, I've hoped to have only retained the good and that is what I wish for him here.   
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I try to go slow; I don't want to hurt him but he's so tight; and while he's hot and eager he's also got to be smarting; feeling that fucking pinch, that in his position becomes much more than that, and I'm trusting it will soon be shaded into nothingness as the pleasure he's experiencing overtakes noises in his head.

He tries to relax, his body at least, if not his mind; although from experience I've found that it takes a certain amount of blood supply to keep the brain going. And I hope what he's feeling now, is special, so fucking special. 

I seal my mouth to his, pumping into his body, hoping he can assimilate the good over anything his head is trying to diminish. And as he moans my name, I continue to breach the unbreachable, reach the unreachable, take our fervent coupling to new heights; and this transformative eruption begets a whole new feeling, an explosion of emotions that I can only describe as life changing. 

The feel of him in my arms is also more, because leading up to this, I couldn't allow myself to focus on expectations or possibilities for an event that I thought shouldn't happen, could never happen; so in denying myself those feelings, the hunger I feel right now all encompassing. 

And assimilating the real with the fantasy, I've got to admit with absolute certainty; are both really fucking good right now.   
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I thought this eventual coupling would be less emotional, more technical; more of a meeting of the bodies than of the heart, but again Elio has surpassed all of that by just being him. And I now mirror all the hunger he exudes, letting it transport me as I merge my body with his, and I now know the heat I feel emanating from within our new selves, and yes the thirst I'm inclined to quench (at neither of our expense), cannot be relegated to just one night. 

And any kind of apprehension I've fostered has rapidly diminished, so my only thoughts are of: how can I better this for him? How in my limited previous experiences can I enrich what he's encountering now? Because I want him to know we are going through this together; that he's not alone in whatever he thinks is happening here, and that this virgin territory he's traversing (filled with obstacles primarily of our own making), is the same road I am traveling as well. 

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□ ‘call me by your name’  
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I wake up wrapped around Elio; as if in my slumbers, our individual selves have transformed into what I can inky describe as, us. And I've never fallen this fast before, I've never wanted more before, and I've never accepted these feelings as strongly as I do right now.

But it's Elio who takes the initiative. Who, even though he's got to be dealing with jumbled emotions, tenderly reassures me as I luxuriate in his closeness, and who when I ask of him something I've never broached with any another, has the fearlessness to accept my proposal without question.

Where he calls me by his name as if it were my own. 

Then taking the lead as he moves to cover me, it has become more than just the two of us, now that ourselves have become the other; and it's clearly apparent we've taken on something we've undeniably accepted as ours.

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It is with great hunger that we would then pursue even more visceral yearnings; elevating us to an even higher plain of intimacy. And in that communal tasting of the other, the exchange of fluids, the heat, the breadth, the eventual storm of his seed hitting my body; this explosion that takes over my senses, that makes us even more than one; that by taking and giving of one's self, I have become less of me and more of Elio. 

And by that interpretation, that closeness evolves into not just a form of giving of one's self, but of accepting of the other; and by the other accepting of what is inherently yours; they too have exchanged a piece of themselves and taken on more of that same part of you. 

And taking that premise one step further, by the collective give and take, the mutual sharing of one's self; we would in time, each become half of the other.   
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Surrendering to the voluptuousness of the moment, and after our bout of give and take, the blending of ourselves, we have our first conversation of the night, where Elio being more of himself than me right now, admits trepidation that we may have been too loud, waking or even more alarming, alerting others to our meeting at midnight. 

Recognizing his uneasiness for what it is, I hopefully allay his fears by telling him, this thing that happened (that I hope will continue to happen), is ours alone and doesn’t have to be shared with anyone. 

Elio then asks a favour, one I would most freely endow, if he can keep my shirt after I’m gone (where I can deny him nothing this night or any other); and if the giving and accepting of that shirt makes him happy, I am also happy; and there is reciprocated satisfaction in that.   
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I can't express strongly enough the joy I feel right now, the euphoria that has not ever been so intense, and all encompassing; and knowing he feels the same, is all I need to take this further into something we both can accept as something that was destined to happen.

And welcoming all these emotions; the esteem I feel for him, for his courage to speak out, be true to himself; has me in total awe of his being.

I love that he is unabashed in his feelings; the responsiveness he’s shown, and the generosity of his soul tells me this is no mistake, and that we are undeniably on the right path. And that I can say now with absolute certainty, this thing we both have, however we define it, has become less about want and eminently more about need.

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□ Fin – Somewhere in Northern Italy – Part Three   
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	4. Oliver's Story Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four
> 
> \- Daylight  
> \- Swimming  
> \- Breakfast  
> \- Kiss You  
> \- Peach  
> \- Balustrade  
> \- Shirt  
> \- Later Perlmans

Somewhere in Northern Italy   
Oliver’s Story - Part Four 

Summer 1983

  
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I never expected this to consume me. 

Not necessarily what happened after midnight, because I never would have seen that coming, but whatever happened within this illusive bubble we've created here in Italy, which has decidedly become a consummate paradisal setting away from reality. And because it's more than just a place, a discernible spot in this world, I can safely say it's evolved into something that has become a significant presence within my consciousness. 

And sometimes it's not a paradise you go looking for, but what happens upon you. It takes over, no matter how careful you are, or what you do to safeguard yourself; because it never was supposed to become anything; and all the wishful thinking in this world that things could be different, that the stars would line up exactly right, would not have changed a damned thing. 

Oliver 1984  
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□ Daylight  
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With the unveiling of the early morning light, our blossoming intimacy has now become a speculative waiting game of what happens next. And there's a certain dogged vulnerability since we are no longer operating under the cloak of darkness, nor immersed in a kind of magical euphoria, or powerful desire of what transpired during that extraordinary time between midnight and dawn.  
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My fingertips tentatively play across his skin, memorizing the touch, the feel, the heat, the sense of him; hoping against hope I can at least elicit in him some kind of positive response, some awareness of the amazing thing that has happened. 

But there's a disconnection as we lie separated by our individual accounting of our collective and frankly disconcerting experiences; not at all the way we fell asleep, not like last night when darkness painted over any inhibitions that might have affected what was a joyful coming together. 

But it seems the eventualities of the cold light of day have caught up with us. 

The Elio who lies by my side is no longer that fevered lad; that enthusiastic and active participant; the one who initiated contact and who last night let me put my mouth upon him as he put his mouth upon me. And who in the middle of the night called out not my name but his own, chanting it over and over so it became a fucking aphrodisiac that melted not only my resolve, but consequently my heart.

And where turning towards me, a cautious optimism emerges; but that hopefulness dissipates when he can't seem to manage any meaningful eye contact; and things do not bode well with him not even being able to look at me. Then when he rolls away I know -- I fucking know, he's regretting all the shit that has happened. 

He's not remembering the closeness or the incredible thing we did together (but how could he); he's thinking of how a part of his body took a part of my body and how everything he's ever known about his sexuality has been turned inside out. 

And on top of that, he's got to be sore. Even though I tried to be gentle, let's face it, what we did, and more importantly what I did to him, has been a big adjustment for his mind as well as his body.

There is now a massive shift as to how we relate to each other; and this new intimacy, from what we had pre-midnight, to whatever the fuck we have now (of how I view him and how he views me), is irrefutable, because there's no way to undo this; there's no fucking going back.

And we've either found each other or we've just lost what could have been.

Because this thing we did, and what we have, is hard to process even for myself. So what it is doing to him must be an unimaginable adjustment to his individuality; delineating very fibre of his being; affecting what he's always known about how he (and his family, because they're a part of this too), feel about just who he is in this world. 

But he's got to know this isn't just happening to him, although he's not thinking about me right now, and I don't want to know how much he hates me; because I knew right from the beginning what would happen, how life changing this could be, and I gave him absolutely no fucking warning. 

I was too much about getting him into bed that I didn't try to dissuade, or even attempt to visit this conversation; and so in my own anticipatory fervour, I failed to prepare him. 

And if I had, would he have stayed?

Did I just take advantage of; not his body, that was given freely; but of how he understands the situation, and how he now addresses his definition of self?  
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And the thing is, we're seeing this from two different perspectives. And his is definitely not running in the vein as to 'how wonderful' it was; and 'I want to fucking do it again', and 'I want him to stick his dick in my ass and not tell me how awful I'm going to feel in the morning'; because that's what just happened. 

The harsh reality that daylight has brought has made me wonder if this is real, and what we did, this fucking wonderful thing, performed more than once mind you, by any chance happen to more than just our bodies, because Elio doesn't seem to be jumping for joy. 

And I don't exactly know what he's thinking, but it can't be good if he's not still in my arms; if he's not kissing me, if he's rolling away to climb out of bed; putting some distance in what I hope, is only a momentary lapse in all the closeness we've garnered. 

And any existing anxiety I have is in response to how he's feeling; because I'm not thinking about me right now; it's all about Elio.  
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So he gets up, grabbing the blue cum stained shirt off the floor, tossing it my way; saying words I didn't expect to hear, but are certainly not in the worst scenario I had envisioned. 

"Let's go swimming." 

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□ Swimming  
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Following him through the narrow gate, I cycle behind, giving him the lead to take me wherever he feels he needs to go; and in doing this, I want him to know I'm still with him, he's not abandoned, and that if he feels like immersing himself in God-awful frigid river water this early in the day (to cleanse whatever the fuck he feels needs cleansing), then that's okay too.

And if he also wants space, and by space I mean by keeping to his half of the river to gain some solitude and perhaps some insight, and even more importantly acceptance, then by all means do that too. 

Because that's also needed on my part, as I consider addressing this emotional time without any assumptions or preconceived notions as to what might come next.  
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I become even more anxious to know what he's thinking as we withdraw from our separate sections of the river; where I feel the need to ask Elio the question that's been burning inside me since he so expeditiously rolled out of bed. 

Am I the bad guy here, and if so, is he going to hold what happened last night against me? 

And when he shakes his head, saying 'No', his body language belies his verbal assurances and I know he's going to need a lot more time on this because right now, in this instant, I don't believe him.

And the chironomy of his retreating glance has me feeling it may be his way of telling me he needs even more space. Or it just could be he's making sure I'm not pissed and still going to follow him home instead of going back down to drown myself in the river - or some shit like that.   
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This swing in circumstances, this new power shift is puzzling to say the least, and yet as I follow him back home, I let him set the parameters as to what to do, what to say (which happens to be nothing, because he's still not talking to me).   
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Arriving back upstairs well before the rest of the house has wakened, Elio stops between our two doors as if deciding which room he should enter; but he's already made up his mind, wordlessly heading through the shared bathroom as I then turn to open my own door.

And his silence speaks volumes. 

I watch as he continues through into his small bedroom, the one where he now sleeps, and surveying my own, I take in the rumpled sheets on the twinned beds where we frantically had uninhibited sex and where we gave ourselves so freely to each other. 

And so in acknowledging the passion spilled on those linens, the secrets they hold, there becomes an uncontrollable urge to change the shift once more, and in that, I feel have to do something.

Breaching any leftover convention, I open the door between the two rooms to discover Elio looking out his window; inviting him to come closer, which wonder of wonders he does, ambling over with shorts draped enticingly low on slim hips, where asking him to take off his trunks, I inadvertently make it sound less of a request and more of a command.

He promptly, without hesitation, removes his shorts as I drop to my knees; and Elio may claim to have some provisory apprehension, but his cock certainly doesn't as it immediately gets hard in my mouth, proving that although his mind maybe unsure, the organ currently monopolizing his blood supply is an enthusiastic supporter of my attentions. 

But it's not just about that.

Although it is proof to me (and to Elio), everything that occurred has happened for a reason; and subsequently if that reason is murky and under review, this important anatomical exercise can now be construed as a lesson in cause and effect, action and reaction. 

And that even though he feels he still needs to process this, his body is far from ambivalent. 

But I take this no further, removing my mouth to stand; then shutting the door I leave him standing there, exposed to his feelings and whatever part of himself that might need to negotiate the why's and wherefore's of any further contact.

And as I let his feelings percolate, the euphoria of the moment that had embraced me earlier has returned; and that indeed gives me hope.

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□ Breakfast   
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The Professor and Annella sit at the breakfast table, each of them embroiled in their own section of the newspaper, not at all minding me as I settle into my appointed spot. And keeping to myself, I'm lost in my own musings while I hold onto a book I’m not even professing to read; pretending not to notice the absence of Elio who is taking forever to appear. 

So when he does show up, finally setting his ass down at the table, he is affectionate with his parents, but doesn't even acknowledge or look my way; and in giving me the cold shoulder, it makes it even more apparent to everyone present that there's definitely something going on.

Because, while I didn't acknowledge or speak at him either, the fact that they are a demonstrative family in and of themselves, this obvious slight to one who has become a de-facto family member is making things even more conspicuous.   
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After several uncomfortable moments (and frankly not being able to stomach this much longer), I explain I have to go into town, telling the Professor that I will speak to him, ‘later’; which has become a private joke amongst the Perlmans who now feel free to use it as a tease, although up until this trip no one has had the audacity to mention it. 

Because unlike most people I have encountered, this couple who have become family, also have the ability to see right through what I used to consider an impenetrable shield, while giving me at least a semblance of dignity that I’ve not been caught up in my own arrogance. 

So with the use of the word "later" to escape an obviously awkward situation, it gives me the excuse I've been waiting for to conclude this glaring pretence of civility without making a scene. And even though we're not fooling anyone as to the fact that, up until today, Elio's and my relationship has been perhaps tentative at best, now that we've had our midnight, the prospect of someone noticing has increased exponentially. 

And with all the not looking or speaking to me that Elio did or did not do, and the fact that I didn't look at or speak to him either; I'm certain as Annella regards my retreat, that she's got to be aware something has happened.

Because although she must have wondered why I continued sitting at the table, finished with my breakfast, playing with my book, and dare I say brooding, Annella has the good breeding or just astute motherly intuition to accept the situation is in hand, and is, at least for now, private. 

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□ Kiss You   
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Heading into Crema to retrieve my typed pages, my thoughts run to the last few remaining days at the villa and my planned trip to Bergamo, although with all that has happened, I can't say the specifics came up during our prurient activities after midnight. 

And as I hold in my hand the un-sent letters that have remained in my possession instead of winging their way to America, I further delay any action by perusing a local shop, where standing in the doorway, I hear Elio call my name as he cycles in from the square.

I jokingly ask if he's not tired of me yet, but I'm not really joking; I need to know because of the way he acted earlier at breakfast, and even earlier, at dawn. 

And I'm intuitive enough to know he's had so many emotions overwhelming him; going from wronged to introspective to almost indifferent and finally resigned; and because of that, effecting an erection while his cock was in my mouth, could very well have been interpreted as the crowning glory to a definitely perplexing start of the day.

So in telling me he just wants to be with me, which I find to be a complete turnabout from this mornings’ fiasco, it makes last night's dalliance, and mutual (because even if he has trouble assimilating it now, it was fucking mutual), enjoyment of each others' bodies, into something I'm now quite looking forward to repeating. 

I ask if he knows how happy I am that we slept together (because he’s got to know, right?). And I'm sure he’s got to be aware that although I was an enthusiastic participant, my hunger for him has now become something I'd like to cultivate into so much more than a one night stand. 

He says, he doesn't know (and how could he?), we did very little talking last night and even less about this; but then he's young and any introspection of this unconventional arrangement must be confusing at best.

But it's not just that; it's when something is burgeoning and both parties (and I include myself in this), are feeling the other one out and not confident if what happened was real or if it was merely lust catapulting us into a provocative moment; not just once, but I counted three times last night, which could easily have become four if the fucking sun hadn't decided to rise. 

So I say ‘of course you don't know’, and then tell him I don't want him regretting anything; hoping I didn't mess him up in anyway; which means it's okay if you're freaked out and never want to do this again, but if it were up to me Elio, we'd have our very own midnight, every waking moment I'm still here. 

Stressing that I don't want either of us to have to pay for this (physically or emotionally), he says he's not going to tell anyone, and I can thank fucking God he's discreet, but he's missing the point.

Elio reiterates I'm not going to get into trouble, and I tell him that's not what I'm talking about, but what's left unsaid is: I'm not worried about repercussions, I'm worried about him.   
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And as we begin to walk away from the store, he bumps my hand, or I bump his, or they both bump each other, and this surreptitious grazing becomes a subconscious contact that really isn't. Because when two hands are willing, and I believe we're both on the same page concerning the bumping of hands, the grazing of knuckles, our errant fingers that are so determined to entwine, now change their minds at the very last moment.

And then the one who initiated the bump has the balls to make sure this contact was recognized as not accidental, but another reaching out; to make it something more; even if the circumstances do not allow for the holding of hands, the fondling of fingers.  
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We find an alcove against a wall, secluded but not hidden, where Elio brings this hand up and I luxuriate in his sense of wonder as he runs an elegant finger over his lip. And the look on his face is so beautiful, as if he's 'daring me to desire him', reminding me of our prurient activities on the berm; so that this and whatever else he's thinking right now, negates any noble intentions and goes straight to my cock. 

And Elio, asking if I'm happy that he came, has me leaning in, getting close (but not nearly as close as I would like); telling him how I would kiss him if I could, when I would love to do so much more, when simply a kiss would not do; although within this open area, this public space, it makes it neither the time nor the place to be doing such a thing. 

  
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□ Peach  
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The sultriness of the afternoon has the house once again caught up in the quiet of the day; and with that stillness, the hush that invades even the most secluded corners, I once again seek him out. But Elio's nowhere to be found, not down at the river, or in his room, nor practicing the piano. 

So when I finally find him up in the attic, enticingly draped over filthy sheets that lay upon an old mattress tossed on the floor; I stealthy approach, not meaning to startle; and in this refined stillness, his serene countenance resembles that of a sleeping prince.

Pulling off my shirt (because I know where this will land); I carefully sit beside him, kissing his chest that smells of warm and tired youth; not the actual smell but like when you slide in with a lover and they have this alluring essence that makes you want to crawl over and into them, and combine all those wonderful sensations to become one. 

He moves slightly, and I'm certain he's awake; his shorts unzipped in open invitation to wandering fingers, wandering lips; beckoning to taste and taste again; tantalizing my taste buds with that not so unpleasant peachiness coating his cock. And Elio, hoping I will disregard, but recognizing it's too late as I go back for another taste to make sure (finding it's nothing really, just something to add to the oral experience), has an eminently visceral reaction. 

So I address it with humor, laughing, asking what he's done, not badgering but teasing, where he continues to plead innocence; although I'm certain it's something as I voraciously contemplate how that taste got there, because wonder of wonders, he didn't just fall cock first onto a peach. But he expresses denial, showing embarrassment as I further tease about the apparently defiled fruit because: one it's fucking funny and two the kid has some real imagination as to where he puts his dick.

But then it becomes more.

Elio covers his eyes, mortified at being caught, and I know it was something more than just playing; he was trying new things, practicing on a fruit when it's obvious his cock (along with the rest of him), craves to enjoy the nooks and crannies of something far more human. 

I continue to tease by saying shit about plants and minerals, asking if he's given up on animals, because if he has, I'd like to know that he's decided never to let me fuck him again.

Elio wonders if I consider his actions, or more specifically him, 'sick', when in actuality it's furthest from my mind. He's experimenting that's all; trying new things; and in that, he's left a seminal part of himself within the recesses of the peach.

And when I reply, I wish everyone was as 'sick' as him, I don't mean sick. 

I mean FREE. 

Free to do whatever the fuck you want with your own body, and if that involves somebody else, and they're a willing participant in this, then it's nobody's business where you stick your dick (a sentiment I have trouble assimilating even for myself).

And with all this, I want to show him how personal this is; how if I can enthusiastically suck his cock, putting his cum in my mouth, even in this case if it's been previously deposited within a torn up piece of fruit, it's totally acceptable and nothing to be ashamed of. 

It's natural, and curiosity is an intrinsic part of being human. 

But I have to go and call it something sick - when it's fucking not.   
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It then escalates to the point where Elio's defiance becomes something more, pleading for me not to take this any further, reaching out for the peach, where I grab him, pushing his hand away as I'm about to have a taste. And he fights me asking why I'm doing this, so I have to hold him, restrain him, telling him to stop fighting; that he'll only get hurt.

Where it all changes. 

And in that transformation, his defiance crumbles, plunging us both out of our depth, where his demeanor becomes heart-breakingly inconsolable. And this thing about the peach has changed so quickly, because, as he buries himself into my body, Elio has in a millisecond gone from pointed defiance to panicked crying. 

And that breaks me, where I enfold him in my arms, whispering that he's okay, it's okay, doing the best I can to comfort him; to make this better.  
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And he tries, for a minute he tries to come out of it, to save face, to not admit there's anything fucking wrong here; apologizing when there's nothing to be sorry for (he's fucking human after all, dealing with human emotions), and it's okay to admit you're having a meltdown in front of the one person in this world who gets it.

I kiss him, hoping against hope this is the right thing; wanting to take away his pain, to absorb some of it so it's not so powerful; and in kissing him, saying it's okay, that whatever he's feeling is reasonable and natural, I can only hope he's fucking hearing me, understanding that whatever kind of embarrassment he is experiencing is completely unwarranted. 

Because he's fucking scaring me; this heart-wrenching manifestation of someone folding in on themselves, laid bare within my arms. 

His reaction takes me out of my depth into uncharted territory where it's almost impossible not to comfort him and yet perhaps it's both of us who need solace, to quiet our fears, not letting anything get in the way of this all encompassing intensity we seem to have around each other.   
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Elio sighs; giving the impression that this is winding down so we can relax for a moment and just hold each other. 

And in this holding, this attachment neither of us can deny, a passion is ignited, not only because his skin is warm and soft under my caresses; pliant and affable to roaming hands and lips, where I can safely say his closeness illicits a certain desire, but that would be disingenuous, because truth be told, the desire I'm feeling started long before I climbed up the stairs into the attic.

Just the thought of him welcoming my advances, becoming the other half of me and I of him, has me seeking him out; craving a closeness that even in the holding of him, comforting him, I know we're connecting in a way I don't think I ever have before. 

He takes a deep breath, where I'm relieved he's feeling better, until he hits me with, 'l don't want you to go', in a voice that seems reasonable in his wanting, yet so desperate in his inflexion, and this heart-breaking yearning that frankly blindsides me will be the undoing of us both.

Those words relay his true feelings, ones I may have encouraged; where I have lied by omission (something I deemed reasonable at the time), safeguarding on several fronts this fledgling closeness, and whatever it will eventually become. 

And in this, I feel I am protecting Elio from a secret so hurtful he may never forgive me; and perhaps most indisputable of all, protecting myself -- and that's what it all comes down to; because it's not just his heart that's breaking but mine as well.

I continue to comfort him; thinking conversely at this very moment of how, over seeming insurmountable odds, I've found someone who both understands and accepts me for everything I can and want to be.

So I hold him, kiss him, and eventually we make love on those filthy sheets laid out on the old mattress in his parent's attic; content for now, that through whatever closeness we have garnered, we will always remain an intrinsic part of each other. 

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□ Balustrade   
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The stone balustrade leading down to the pool has become (much like Elio's berm), my spot. And even knowing where it is, it's his house after all, he hasn't caught on that I've appropriated this seat as my very own, or within my extensive late night musings, what this place has come to mean to me. 

Because much like his spot on the berm, this feels like home; an unassailable sanctuary where I'm able to be myself, and in being that self, I can ponder something which would be considered unconscionable anywhere else; and where my feelings towards someone unsuited like Elio, can go from spark to full flame under the secrecy and hiddenness of contemplative nightfall. 

That those precise yearnings have become a reality, changes what I had once accepted as an impossibly into something viable; and I am now unequivocally emboldened to weigh becoming this remodeled version of myself. Yet I'm preoccupied with the need to mask this newness against certain consequences that may have, in my estimation, become inevitable.   
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We straddle the improvised seat, whispering in lowered voices of hopes and dreams and of opportunities lost; our intimacy brought to another level by our exemplary closeness in this private space. 

Savoring my favorite spot, we sit, hands wandering, skin tingling in arousal, bodies veiled under a blanket of lust of which we've both been affected; and Elio has become this most unguarded and affectionate of lovers, enchanting me with his total candor regarding the opening of hearts, the intensity of his desire, and his delight in the carnality of the moment.

I tell him of how I'd often end up here, sitting alone, listening to the tempered sounds after nightfall: of the house; of voices heard, and music played; where I'd contemplate my presence in the world, and now, as of our arrangement to meet at midnight, my place with Elio.

What I don't say is how I heard him play that particular night, and many other nights before; and of how along with the radio hits of the day, those impressed remembrances have become the soundtrack of my summer. 

How his playing calms me and energizes me at the same time; those beautifully classic renditions of musical genius which, within his own brilliance, he has made his own.  
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Elio wonders why I, because it becomes evident I was the one dragging my feet in this, didn't give him a more timely sign of my affections; because, frankly, in wasting so many days (and nights), our decision to meet at midnight could have occurred that much sooner. Where I set out to remind him of the instance when we were playing volleyball and I touched him, hoping he would know that I liked him but the way he reacted, shrugging away from my touch, retreating from my advances, made me feel like I'd instead executed a molestation. 

He's sorry his reaction was so unsettled, and dare I say, extreme, but in retrospect it was normal that he be alarmed, that it would cause distress in one not prepared to be touched; and it was perhaps those unresolved feelings that caused him to flee.

But it was also an indication for me to keep my distance; and I wonder if it was because of this adverse reaction, or perhaps more pointedly, his response could have been construed as positive which would then have opened up a whole new can of worms.  
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I tell him how I come out here for hours every night; because he's probably been wondering where, if not how, I spent my free time; what I've been doing, who I've been fucking; and the reason I say anything tonight is because it's time I thought he should know, that I want him to know.

He'd assumed I'd been fucking my way through the female populace this summer, and I've got to admit that's most likely what I would have done if I had not been interested in a certain beautiful young man who convention says I shouldn't have implicated in these prurient activities; and who I, along with him, should be ashamed by what we've done and what we are doing. 

But how could it be shameful if it's as beautiful as this; because what we are and what we do, is beautiful and honest and loving. 

I adore when he uses his hands to further express his thoughts, whether in idle conversation or in private when we’re alone. And those same fingers that so enthusiastically kneed my thigh in what could appear as merely a caress, now make no secret of having so much more on their minds.

But this needs to move inside, because although we're having a very tempting moment here, and had a very hurried albeit, extremely pleasurable interlude, it's nowhere near as private as what has become our personal refuge upstairs; his room, my room, and now our room, where we can be free to be intimate without any untoward concerns or inhibitions. 

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□ Shirt   
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Three days. Three whole fucking days. Where did the time go? Or better still, why the fuck I did I wait so long.

And these past few days we've cloistered ourselves from the outside world; days spent discovering each other's bodies, imagining impossibilities and sharing our hopes and dreams; have been so much more than idyllic. 

That it was mostly Elio doing the sharing is fine; I love hearing him talk about almost anything; he's so passionate, his exuberance evident in how he speaks about his family, his music; and all the things we do inside this room.

But he sleeps now, beautifully resplendent in our bed; the heavy twinned behemoths pushed together without a care of getting caught, because on this day, this morning, Elio is so fucked out he's not even conscious of me getting up, my packed bags beside the door -- the covert gifting of the shirt.

The blue shirt he asked for that first night; washed, ironed, on a hanger with a note scribbled on torn paper.   
_____ _____ _____

To: Oliver from Elio.   
_____ _____ _____

A tag bearing my name from his; no longer limited to a litany breathed under the cloak of darkness, but spelled out in my own hand, a gift from my heart to his. 

And it was better this way, less heart-wrenching than taking it off the hanger myself, slipping it over his slim frame, to wrap my arms around, holding him to me one last time in this room, his room, my room, ours.

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□ Later Perlmans   
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As the weeks go by and my time here in Italy gallops to an end, I know that it will be very difficult to say goodbye to these wonderful people; this couple who have welcomed me into their home and treated me like family. 

And their tolerance has gifted me so many things during my stay; not the very least, Elio.

Not in a physical sense, but they made him, raised him, nurtured him into the talented and exceptional human being he is today; and even though he has developed into his own man, their influences are stamped all over him.   
__

So it's in the town square where I'm saying my goodbyes to the Professor and Annella; and as she tells me I'm their favorite student, inviting me to visit again, I have to enquire if she honestly means it; because truth be told; and I'm not looking for a compliment; I really want to know. 

And throughout this heartfelt goodbye, they're kissing me, hugging me with affectionate pats, and warm-hearted embraces, but not Elio, he's already on the bus - he is coming back. 

I'm not.

Which has me a bit choked up, and when the Professor says to please come back soon; I have to make light, because if I don't, I may just grab Elio and hide away in the villa for the rest of our lives; so I reply with a line that tells them I intend to move here. 

Because part of me wouldn't be averse to living right here with mom and dad and Elio too. 

I tell them it's been amazing, which isn't the half of it; they don't understand, or perhaps they would, that this little piece of heaven is where (through their son), I've been able to, for the very first time, experience a truly authentic connection to a place, a fragment of time and the extraordinary people who have made a world of difference in my life. 

'Well later Perlmans.' I say, getting on the bus where I gravitate towards the back to wave again, getting my last view; one that I hope to take with me; although the best part of coming here is already seated up front.

Annella mimes for Elio to call as Chiara cycles up with a dejected look on her face, although why she's here is a bit of a puzzle, considering I had disappeared with Elio for three days, and even the short time before that we weren't overly chummy. 

So I wave goodbye, not just to Chiara and the Perlmans', but to the freedom I had here, which upon my return home will no longer be mine. Because as far as paradise goes, what happened here, no matter the safeguards so rigorously implemented; Italy, this remarkable area, the Perlmans and Elio, will forever inhabit a special place in my heart. 

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□ FIN - Oliver's Story - Part Four   
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	5. Oliver's Story Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five 
> 
> \- Poem  
> \- To Bergamo  
> \- Water  
> \- Hotel  
> \- Night Out  
> \- Furs  
> \- His  
> \- HOTEL II  
> \- Melancholy  
> \- Mourning  
> \- Goodbye  
> \- The Call  
> \- Cor Cordium  
> \- Je me souviens  
> \- EPILOGUE  
> \- Paradise

Somewhere in Northern Italy  
Oliver’s Story - Summer 1983

Part Five

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□ Somewhere in Northern Italy: Part Five  
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Miles away from home, I think of you  
In your gossamer daydreams  
My valiant knight  
That bespoke the truth  
And extinguished doubt  
And granted me that unequivocal part of you.  
__

Then on that dreary fateful day  
That fabric torn asunder  
And pieces come to recollections born  
In wind and rain and thunder

Elements that take me back to you  
As I, for that ephemeral moment can  
Have touched the stars, (tumbled back to earth)   
A changed and humbled man.

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□ TO BERGAMO  
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I make my way down the aisle to find Elio bogarting the window seat, which frankly is his for the taking, because folding myself behind these narrow cramped seats isn't my favourite thing to do. 

So plopping myself down beside him, I can't contain the smile on my face as I bump his shoulder, and he bumps mine; and even though I'm sad to be leaving, the thought of having three more uninterrupted days alone with Elio is more than I could ever hope for.

'What?' He asks.

'Nothing,' I say, the euphoria of the moment making me grin like a fool, as he mirrors my enthusiasm the only way Elio can; and his buoyancy becomes infectious as we travel down narrow, winding roads in a bus too rickety for words. 

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□ Water  
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Elio has once again become my tour guide as we climb up the unforgiving incline, seemingly for hours, well two anyway; over rough terrain and plants that sting, with no discernible path that gives it a novel feeling of trails blazed and untouched freedoms. And it's as if we are the only two people who have ever been here, which makes it special, and more importantly makes it ours.

And in it being ours, we have the freedom to do, say or act anyway we choose; and Elio's seemingly ludicrous idea (of 'let's go into the middle of nowhere because I've got something to show you'), now becomes one of his best. 

But it's this unfettered bonding, this exquisite connection we are experiencing that brings up the inescapable realization that time is fleeting; and as I look back down the path we've followed, I now know more than ever, I don't want this to end, and like Elio, I don't want 'me' to go.  
__

He trudges on ahead of me, as I continue to follow him over this tenuous trail we are forging up to an elevation that has the capacity to be its very own world; and in sharing it with us, it allows for uninhibited shouting, and howling into the wind that holds our cries before calling back to us; taking note of our names, that we've existed, that we were here. 

This great hike, that has taxed our bodies if not our spirit, is far from a walk in the park, but has the most wonderful surprise at the end; one that takes your breath away as this great gushing waterfall erupts in magnificent splendor to cascade down the mountainside.

Our playful rough-housing quickly becomes a reverential stillness, as we stare in awe at the gift the God's have carved into this majestic rocky face.

And it's like watching nature at its most remarkable; this deluge, that in its infancy was just a trickle; reinforcing that power, from its very humble beginnings, originating from one small crack in an impenetrable force, can over time have the capacity to move mountains.

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□ Hotel   
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Our base for our stay here in Bergamo is this tiny room ensconced in a dilapidated hotel; a place where we can continue to rough-house and wrestle, make love and howl at the moon. 

Somewhere we can be away from family; his not mine (but that's whole other shit-show I'd rather not think about); where we can do whatever the fuck we feel like doing, and in a way, even during this short stay, this meager space will become our very own home away from home.   
__

Elio flops on the bed as I stumble past to open the windows overlooking the Juliette balcony, and I don't know to assimilate this, but this thing we have, has become, dare I say, extremely comfortable.

And as he joins me to look down onto the street below, Elio turns, leaning into me, his head flopping onto my chest; total contentment of the moment evident in his very being. And despite all my orchestrated diversions, his demeanor ricochets from animated giddiness to exhaustion to melancholy in the blink of an eye, and it hits me again that while we're only here a couple of days, it's going by so quickly that our time together can now be counted down within mere in hours. 

And I want those hours to be shared exclusively with Elio; creating memories that will make us smile; cataloguing prurient activities that would make lesser men blush; doing things I'm sure his mother or at least Mafalda would frown upon.

So if being a bad influence for a few fucking hours gives Elio what he's been craving, perhaps what we both need, considering I haven't had enough of these myself, then we will have done ourselves proud.  
__

The excitement of the day, or boyish exuberance, or just the fucking joy of being here in Bergamo, has us laughing, being incredibly silly, as I tickle him unmercifully, wrestling him to the bed, each of us vying for the upper hand, and I temper my superior strength and ability while Elio with his quickness and agility makes it almost a fair fight.

This physicality is something else I will miss, as I've found Elio to be very hands on a lot of the time; although I have to admit I've instigated these bouts myself a time or two. It's become quite evident this has reached a point where neither of us has to think twice about how or where we touch each other.

And this communal touching that's happening; okay, this grappling for dominance; soon becomes far more than a simple scuffle; and I fucking hope the walls are soundproof (which is unlikely), because we're getting loud and I have no plans to consider the neighbours.

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□ Night Out   
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Fucking drunk Elio can apparently also be sweet and affectionate and incredibly horny; which isn't necessarily a bad thing; and as I've been well into the spirits myself, we find ourselves capping off the evening by taking a stroll on practically empty streets and alleyways which without any sign of nightlife, there is no one around to witness our after-hour's merrymaking that eventually turns into an impromptu Broadway extravaganza.  
___

Taking my hand, Elio swings us around in some pseudo Gene Kelly routine, although he's probably not even aware of who Gene Kelly is, but this spontaneous display he's executing, is pretty close; either that or I'm so incredibly drunk myself that everything he's doing seems amazing.

So I break out into song, serenading him to a bit of Sinatra (except I can't remember the words), as I inspire Elio into a bit of extemporaneous choreography that ends up with him in my arms. And it seems to be doing the trick as he's now climbing all over me, lips to my neck, hands wandering, one leg surreptitiously trying to wrap around my own; drawing me closer as he pulls me in for a kiss.

And he's so beautifully mine; plastering himself to my body; although I wish I could remember more of the lyrics; because, to paraphrase his own words stated so profoundly at the memorial, he has to know, because I want him to know.  
_____

But wait.   
_____

Music filters in from the next street over and it's THEM, and I love them so much that I want Elio to be part of this, and to come to love them too because he has to experience how fantastic they are. So telegraphing the urgency of the situation, I beckon him towards that marvelous sound and the phenomenon that are The Psychedelic Furs.

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□ Furs  
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The music filters out from someone's car as we approach a small group of friends, although it's not just any music but the genius that is Richard Butler. And there's no way I can avoid running towards them; engaging this girl who's so free in her interpretation as she dances to this song that I love. 

Where I convince her in my halting Italian to come with me; leading her into this roped off area; and as the church bells ring I succumb to my compulsion to just dance. 

Elio staggers over to sit down on the curb, not looking at all well; only I'm not really paying attention as the girl is telling me shit that's going so far over my head that I need an interpreter. So calling over to ask what she's saying, I'm just in time to see him up-chuck most of his dinner along with probably every ounce of liquor he's consumed this evening.

Even though I find it fucking funny (everything seems tragically funny tonight), Elio looks really sick and kind of sad sitting there; and I can't help but think he kind of resembles an abandoned puppy.

So having a bit of a wooden leg myself, and perhaps my size has something to do with it, I feel I'm slightly more sober than he is; although there's nothing sober about the way I practically fall over the chained barrier to get to him; intoning hurried excuses to my lovely dance partner as we leave the trio to find a less obvious spot for Elio to recuperate. 

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□ His  
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Elio sags against me as I take on much of his weight, making our way down to a lower level where he can clean up in a fountain; both of us considerably more lucid than a few moments ago as I no longer see any humor in his misery. 

Resting my hand on his back, I feel connected to him, while he takes one last dry heave, his discomfort so palpable that I feel the need to study his face, ensuring he's okay, not just physically, but making sure that he understands there's nothing to be ashamed of. But what's left unsaid is that I hope we can continue our merrymaking somewhere in a more intimate atmosphere, where there's a bed (although the thought of fucking him up against a wall has its merits too).   
__

Refreshed, but still bedraggled, he accompanies me a few steps along the street, arms entwined, the awareness that it's our last night so prevalent that it seems all encompassing; where it has me pulling him in for a kiss; the first kiss I can remember when I don't give a fuck if we have an audience (but thank fucking God we don't).

But Elio seems so sad and vulnerable that my protective instinct kicks in, and with that in mind I want to give him everything he wants in this world; everything his heart desires.   
__

Finally giving into the magic of this night, we do what we should have been doing all along; the intensity of our gaze drawing us in; our lips meeting, tenderly at first, a mere brushing, one hand cupping his neck as I taste, igniting a flame that burns so fiercely that with this intensified heat, I've completely forgotten where we are. 

My senses become overwhelmed with Elio. Him, us, our bodies pressed together, my other hand surrounds, fingers splayed to hold him close, our mouths breathing into the other, making even the sweetest of kisses become an open mouthed devouring. 

This primal drumming of our pulses connects us even more so that in our own little world, alone in this deserted alleyway, my heart becomes his and his heart becomes mine.

This elemental passion: rare to any past experience (that can only be described as OURS), turns what I've always considered as a selfish want into full blown need.

And this very moment, as I take him all in, becomes this wordless declaration; that feeling of being a fundamental part of another that says everything we'll ever need to say; our gazes held, our lips met, our bodies fused along every connected inch of tissue, anticipating so much more; and for that quintessential perfect moment we are suspended within time.

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As Elio presses against me (and it's all him now), he can do whatever he fucking pleases, because for the time we have left, I will give him everything, I will be his everything. 

And this is what it's all about; our roles reversed; pulling him into me, accepting who we are, and even with my back up against the wall, I'm not ashamed to admit, I am his and he is mine.

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□ HOTEL II  
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I've often wondered what force brought us together; and I don't know how much fate had to do with it (or even if I believe it exists), but it seems like this had to come from something deeper; where it has now created a parable of sorts (although I've yet to decipher any profound meaning, if there ever was one in the first place). 

And it's apparent that whatever the fates had in store; this higher power that helped orchestrate whatever-the-fuck you want to call it (because I sure as hell don't have an credible definition), must have had a macabre sense of humor, because while Elio and I knew all along this had an expiration date, we were both irrevocably seduced by the intensity of our burgeoning attraction. 

But was that all this was? A one night stand - an exploration of our deepest desires that evolved into more because we let it? 

Oliver 1984  
____  
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□ Melancholy   
__

I've found that internal reflection and introspective contemplation can creep into my consciousness at the most revealing of times and that is where my thoughts land as I lean on the balcony railing, looking outward from what has become our very comfortable but transitory love-nest. 

So in this considering of how we got here and all the repercussions of our decision to meet at midnight, I surmise that this thing we have cannot be deemed as entirely of our own making, because like two magnets fighting against a steely force, they will eventually break free to connect in a purely elemental and frankly undeniable way. 

It's basically physiological and an inherent law of attraction. 

Fuck, even touching his shoulder, the kiss on the berm and Elio's bold maneuver afterwards proves the manipulation of his foot, and whatever came later, was not at all an error in judgement; because how could it be called that when the eventual consummation would become the genesis of something so overwhelmingly beautiful.

I then think of all the times when his talent, his bravery, and yes, his fucking charisma, had me in total awe of this amazing son of my summer host and mentor. 

An enthrallment that, if I'm being truthful, started the first moment I laid eyes on him (even though I was too exhausted to do anything at the time).

I can see now that this awkward stage is over with: all our hopeless missteps, of how we were initially seduced by the other, and that sending out ill-conceived, and frankly perhaps, poorly executed signals, could result in both of us being either too cautious or too into our heads to appreciate as real.

And I can also, in retrospect, admire how Elio gave no quarter, and even when challenged, stood up to me when I confronted him about meddling in my affairs; when at the time no affairs were being had. 

But then there was the boldness of his conciliatory gesture of offering his hand at Lake Garda; and even more so recounting the undeniable appeal of his intellect and audaciousness later at the Piave memorial (a move without which we might still be incapable of taking that first step). 

But there were also instances when that admiration quickly turned into displeasure: the flaunting of his relationship with Marzia and butting into mine with Chiara; although his jealousy proved to be the impetus I needed to act further, push harder, culminating in the marked response to his frenzied note so brazenly pushed under my door when he still thought the worst of me.

And above all that, it has been a summer to remember. And something that has deepened my esteem in the humanity shown by this exceptional family, and Elio who became not just my lover but the other half of me, and through that has also become a significant part of everything that is good in my life. 

So now with the clock ticking down to our final last moments I don't know how I'll say goodbye and more than that, I don't how I'm ever going to leave. And owing to the far reaching consequences of my actions here in Italy, there is no way I can stay; and not leaving isn't a decision I can make, and what's even more gut-wrenching is that it's completely out of my hands.   
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My melancholy of these early morning hours, has me considering the repercussions of letting this escalate past what could have been a clean cut exploration into not just a summer affair, but an affair of the heart; one that certainly cannot be categorized as an ill-fated endeavor but as something that just can't be fixed by staying, not that it is in any way a viable option. 

And I'm torn open by the turmoil I have caused in Elio's life; in taking this wondrous gift we've been given and morphing it into a situation that seems beyond repair.  
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I look over to the bed where Elio is sleeping off the excesses our night; his tranquil countenance appearing more like that of an innocent boy than the young man who was sick in the alleyway; who after the fountain leaned into my arms and showed me how just much I was going to miss him - and curtained within the best circumstances, how right this could be.   
__

Throughout these intense last few hours, the reality of my departure, and the despondency that has set in, my subsequent ruminations have shown me how, if not for my recklessness and selfish behavior (because I've known all along the deep hurt that can't escape our parting), that I too am blindsided. 

And in that blindness of not accepting the extent to which I've duped myself, I've created an imprecise portrait of what our lives will look like after I'm gone. 

But I hope Elio will continue to be brilliant in everything he does; and I hope the people around him will love and support him in whatever matters most. Because I want things to matter; I want Elio to wake up every day of his life with that beautiful smile on his face and to know that his heart is pure and that his genius and his humility are some of the fucking sexiest things about him.

And most of all I want him to be happy.  
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Sitting down beside him on the bed, I pause to watch him sleep, the heaviness of my thoughts still with me; feeling like shit that tomorrow I will be gone (and Elio, gone from my life also); and I can't imagine how he is going to get through this because right now, in this moment, it feels like I am dying.

And in that dying, that part of me where my optimism lies; that belief that anything is possible is shattered too; and I'm debilitated to stop it.

And that in a nutshell is what's happening, and the grief is already seeping in. 

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□ Mourning   
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Careful of their fragile nature, we hold our recollections close, cataloguing each moment as they pass, not only the meaningful, but what may seem insignificant also; guarding them in our hearts to treat them with upmost reverence, that these will become the fabric of our yesterdays, our todays and our tomorrows. 

But within these fibres there is strength and resilience, and in that robustness, we must need take care these formidable remembrances will not once more tear us apart. 

Oliver 1984  
____  
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We make love one more time as morning breaks, that intangible time of day that exudes all kinds of possibilities; but not today, today will be our last time together; even though Elio with his anticipatory outlook on life (talking about writing and phone calls, that in this eventuality are not likely happen), is well aware this is a conclusion if not a finale.

I look into his eyes, memorizing tone, depth and flecks of color; his hair, tussled by my fingers combing through, tugging gently so he sustains my gaze when I know he wants to look away. 

Running my thumbs over his brow, down his nose to spread out over classic cheekbones; tracing around his jaw to converge at his chin; then up to his mouth; I press on that softness, rubbing each thumb over lips that of their own volition form into an O; tempting me to touch mine lightly to his. 

I pull back taking in all the emotions he's experiencing, brushing tremoring fingertips over tear stained cheeks, before carefully pressing my mouth to those iridescent trails to wistfully lap with my tongue. I taste his salt before returning to his mouth; his tears wetting my face until I realize they're also mine wetting him too.  
__

It's a slow coupling, as we both collect more memories with each touch, each breath, and eventually our cries echo throughout the near empty room, that in essence we've already left. 

Those memories: passionately savored and stored to be pulled from our recollections when time and our emotions allow them to be tasted once more in love and not bitterness. 

Then nestling him to my side, one leg pressed between sinewy thighs; fingers playing over his skin (reminiscent of that fateful morning that seems so long ago but really isn't); I mumble into his curls that, 'it's time', when time is no longer a treasured commodity but an eventuality. 

Elio turns to me, eyes bright, holding back emotions that flicker across his face, telling me of things he's planning to do; telling me that he'll be back for Christmas, that I'm welcome to come visit; all rapidly uttered in that halting stammer he has when he's flustered. 

But these are the moments I will remember fondly; and even though he's hinting of more; I can't help but meld this into everything I've come to adore about him. 

But in that more I find I cannot reassure with platitudes and empty promises, because, although there's nothing I'd rather do; an eventual returning to what we have here is impossible, because by then, those people will no longer exist.   
__  
__ 

So I tell him of now. 

Of how I treasure all that we are and have become; of how my heart has expanded to include things I never thought possible; of the things I've learned and will continue to learn; and of how I never knew I could feel so deeply after engaging that part of him given so freely that first night.  
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__

And if someday he wants that part back; and I hope he never does; I will tell him that measure of our former selves resides in safekeeping for a reason, and that reason is what makes us what we are today, and will continue to make us every day for the rest of our lives. 

Forever and a day, I will tell him, until we take our very last breath. 

And because these things happen for a reason, that cannot be changed.

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□ Goodbye   
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The train whistles as it rolls into the station, a big green monstrosity that will take me away; and in this moment we've both been dreading, Elio looks so lost and completely devastated; and I know I've caused this. 

This boy, who has given so much of himself, is broken by my leaving; and this has become something I never would have bargained for. 

Although I haven't revealed how I am affected; this breaking I've caused us both, presents the hypothesis that I've also become attached to this exceptional lad in a way that has continually surprised and amazed me. 

And there's a giant barrage of guilt and abandonment hanging over me as well as I try to be strong for us both; and in Elio's repeated queries as to whether I have my passport; he's perhaps hoping that if it's not found, it will keep me here. 

But as the station master calls out for boarding, our words are lost in the moment of the hiss and squeal of the engine rolling in. And while neither of us speaks, it's all unmistakably presented in his body language; his face, the blue shirt and that damned backpack that will forever remind me of him.

Elio stares right at me and I'm reminded of that first breakfast when I felt the power of his gaze; that piercing feeling that he sees right through any defences I may have; and all this while I'm having trouble looking him in the eye; although he seems to be not giving up a single inch of this powerful moment. 

I take a second, then with a nod gather him into my arms; hugging him, in what is at first a congenial way, a friendly parting. But it's more than his friendship I will be missing; holding him close, when it's never close enough; the warmth of him drawing me in as he puts his arms around me in unabashed affection; this public goodbye that many would view as a brotherly farewell, saying ciao to the summer student who is heading home to America.

But nobody bothers as I lay my cheek to his hair (not looking, not looking); just holding him tight as I gather the strap of that damned backpack into my fist; my hand refusing to let go; but then it's time; when letting go is not something I want to do.

And mirroring my actions, he holds on tight, his chin digging into my shoulder as he gathers my shirt into his fist, knocking lightly on my back; his heat, his innocence in all this, so inescapably enticing, but not enough to keep me here, as I'm one step away from leaving his life forever.

Because despite all the assurances to his parents, I know in my heart that this will be the last time I see his beautiful face; although when he puts his hand to his chin (a habit that's such an endearing part of him), the potency of that innocent gesture almost breaks me.

But the train and my life back home are waiting as I gather my bags, climbing aboard with one last look out the window as the door is closed, the finality of the moment that has been so glaringly apparent, hits me like a ton of bricks, that punch to the gut that has me doubled over, laying on the ground, clutching not my stomach but my heart that is threatening to jump out of my chest and scramble all the way back to him.

And seeing him standing there, watching as the train pulls away, requires more grit and courage than I can summon right now; one quick glance and I'm gone.

So while I see others waving back, I can't. 

I want to, but I can't be looking backwards, only forwards. That's not my life anymore, although I may want it to be, it's just too hard; and when I've spent a lifetime fighting to stay above water - to maintain some semblance of decorum when life is throwing shit at you and the only way out is to tunnel under it - you do what you fucking have to do.

And it's not ciao, I'll see you soon. 

It's fucking goodbye.

The finality of which, I don't think has hit him yet; but it will, and it kills me that I won't be there to pick up the pieces   
__

So while I've been carrying this around from the beginning, Elio has had, if not a starry-eyed optimism, certainly a reluctance to believe that this will come to its fateful conclusion. 

And if it's seen as cowardice in denying this remarkable young man one last look to take with him; I've got no answers for that.

The biggest hitch in this lamentable exit strategy has been my fucking reluctance to acknowledge, or at least accept, how devastating this is for me as well. 

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□ The Call   
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The sound of Elio's voice, even all those miles away, immediately takes me back to the train station and everything that happened in Italy, and to us. And I knew delivering this would be a formidable task, this news I have, that's going to change everything, but listening to him speak and the times in between when he's silent and I can't tell what he's thinking, is making this so much harder than I would have thought. And I've thought about it a lot.

Because although my news would be the biggest and most difficult part of the phone call; having this conversation, any conversation with Elio where his words travel right through the phone lines to pierce my heart, immediately takes me back to the unequivocal implications of our arrangement to meet at midnight. 

And where unbeknownst to Elio, his part in my life has changed so drastically that he can no longer be considered a 'what if', but has now radically transitioned into a 'what could have been'. And for that reason alone, what he meant to me, and if I'm being honest, still means, brings on a certain conviction that this has to be done in a very delicate manner. 

So steadying myself, I keep my words crisp and clear, no emotion, no inflection that would give away one iota of how much turmoil my life has been under these past few months, and of how much it is now that I've chosen a different path; a choice that impacts several lives, not the very least the young man on the other end of the line. 

Because with all consequences considered and ultimately decided upon; decisions made while not consulting or even contacting Elio to give him any warning (which was the very least I could do as I'm about to destroy any chance he'll ever want to hear from me again); he has acquired the innate ability to see right through any of my small talk bullshit tactics that I'm really not trying to dispense but what are intrinsically a subconscious mechanism to protect myself. 

A strategy used in various degrees over many years of coping with conflicting emotions, so that I can remain level-headed and not fall apart under scrutiny; and all the while not acknowledging that it's going to fall apart anyway.  
__

'I miss you.' He says.

And Elio's not playing fair, although he has no idea that what he is doing is making this unscrupulously hard; that those words that should mean nothing now (if they were just words), but spoken by Elio, in his voice, from his heart, demand an intimate response with my anguished addendum of 'very much'. 

While I wonder if it is to appease Elio (or am I blindsiding myself with this admission that is so fucking true); I then have to concentrate on my voice not collapsing along with the rest of me. 

He says nothing at first; the phone line quiet; but I can hear him breathing, those quick, shallow breaths, that could have been a sigh, but remain hidden across these unassailable miles, and the big fucking ocean that isn't just an indisputable obstacle but also a fucking metaphor for what I've been dealing with. 

And that said, this is not just a courtesy call, but something that has to be done; so I now have get around to telling him the news. 

News that will turn your world upside down, Elio; news that I've been rehearsing like I'm presenting my thesis, but this is not a fucking hypothesis I'm defending, but something that directly impacts lives. 

'News?' He stammers. 

Then he jokes about me getting married (I suppose), and his little quip takes a tragic turn as I tell him it might happen next spring; and I'm hoping I've done this right and that he will make it easy for me. 

But his breathing gets rougher. 'You never said anything.' 

Not an accusation but a statement of fact. And in one respect, I'm glad to be finally telling him about this burden I've been carrying, as if I'm the one who's life is falling apart (not his), with this thing that has been off and on for the past three years. 

His voice changes again saying, 'That's wonderful news.'

But I know he's lying; not necessarily in the congratulatory response but about how it's affecting him.

'Do you mind?'   
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The call is then picked up by the Perlmans, who also congratulate me with effusive wishes; and they're still so kind, considering what I believe they know about Elio and me. 

Because I know that they know. 

They treat me like a son or even a favored son-in-law, but there's steel behind the laughter in Annella's words as she informs me their next student will be female (only moments before I announce my impending nuptials).

And while Professor Perlman chimes in with his own congratulations, Annella finishes the call with something about giving the line back to Elio; still calling me ‘sweetheart’, even after I've given them news that could devastate their son.

Their gracious gesture both mitigates and escalates my anxiety in the way that thank-fucking-God that part is over; but now all I can think of as I wrap things up with his parents (and I have to remember they're nothing like my own family); is what will I say when Elio comes back on the line.  
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'Do you mind?' I ask. But in saying nothing, I find his silence much harder to bear than hearing him say 'no'; much more heart wrenching that I ever thought it would be, because although he's not lying at this moment, it is a lie that he will relive over and over, replaying all the 'what ifs'; making the nothing into something that might have mattered. 

And I don't know that it would have. 

Mattered. 

Not only to him but to me as well.

Could I change my destiny on that one word, or better yet, would I? Would I hop a plane back to Italy, like I'd intended, spending the holidays with them. Him. 

And what then? Not fly back? Disappear? 

Become Oliver and Elio. Forever. 

In this environment? No.  
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I try to explain about parents; that mine aren't as accepting as his, and how my life is pretty much mapped out for me, but really there's nothing more to say.

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□ Cor Cordium   
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I never thought I'd be caught between two loves; because I do love her (in a way), although not nearly the same or as much as with Elio.

Perhaps I'm getting love and affection mixed up because what happened with Elio became love pure and simple; but what I have with her is more complex and I may have tried to turn my affection for her into love, although my reasoning was, if we were together long enough, that love would grow, and it has, but it is different, very different.

And I'm not sure if what I'm feeling is something real or something ingrained from an early age; telling myself that my relationship with Elio was not practical in any respect because it could never exist in the real world. That too many things would have to happen - would have to change, to have the same life with him that I have with her.

And if I tell myself long enough and often enough, maybe someday I will believe it. 

But not today.

Today, I'm just sad. Fucking sad.

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□ Je me souviens  
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As I listen to the desperation in his voice, coupled with the sadness in my heart, those fanciful ideas I've put into his head seem a cruel reminder that I, for a moment in time, touched the stars and tumbled back to earth a changed and humbled man.

For he gave me much more than I ever could have given him; he brought me joy in his unbridled enthusiasm for life in all its complexities; seeing the world, and his part in it with much clearer eyes than I did at his age (and may even do now); and I wouldn't for a minute give up or change what happened, only how it ended.

Because he was my champion and my lover; and the one I will always remember.  
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"Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio .." 

"Oliver." I breathe. "I remember .. everything."

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□ Fin - Somewhere in Northern Italy.   
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□ Epilogue  
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□ Paradise   
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I looked up the word the other day, not that I had to; it's my bread and butter after all; but like someone dying of a terminal illness, l felt the need for a second opinion. 

So there it was, with an easy dozen or more other words describing the same thing, the same feeling; and one lonely word for the opposite; and it seems fitting, considering how I feel now, that hell is the complete antithesis of the paradigm of bliss l had back in Italy. 

So in treasuring all that my recollections can hold; I'm reminded of a visit to a corner store, it doesn't matter which, because like the one on my corner, and like any other corner around the world, it has a spot for memorabilia, for souvenirs; and though my Italian is rusty, io ricordo ogni cosa, and my French is even rustier, Je me souviens de tout; I've got to say those words l last spoke to Elio, on that cold winter evening, encompass all that my heart can bear. 

And I now know that l will forever continue .. 

To remember everything. 

Oliver 1984

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□ FIN - Somewhere in Northern Italy - Oliver's Story 

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Next up... Annella's Story 


	6. Part Six - Annella's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A SPECIAL🌹MOTHER'S🌹DAY INSTALLMENT

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🌹 Annella - A Mother's Love 🌹

  
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He came into our lives, tall and brash; spouting pleasantries and bravado in the same breath - not unlike some of the others. But the way we were all enamoured, drawn towards, not just who he showed the world but the part of him he didn't want anyone else to know, made him a force in our lives; made him ours.  
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And he broke my son's heart.  
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And that, in and of itself, should have made it unforgivable.  
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So while Mafalda has had no qualms about threatening his mortality, we have taken another stance.  
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🌹  
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Oliver had, over the weeks he spent with us, exhibited many layers, ones that were buried so far beneath the man, no, the boy, I called them my boys, Oliver and the son I gave birth to; so many layers that he couldn't land at the person he wanted to be.

But maybe he didn't want this either. Never wanted this.

This life.  
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Not this attraction that I've wondered about and witnessed with my own eyes; the way Oliver elevated whenever Elio was near, the way they both elevated. They brought each other up.

And now, through this American boy's actions, and the way he told us of his news, he has come back into our lives and torn my son's heart right from his chest, giving a massive, but not unpredicted, blow to Elio's resiliency.

But he will mend and he will come out of it stronger. This I know.

And this I have told him.  
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Oliver on the other hand, has made a life's decision that has completely turned on it's head all he had come to mean to Elio, and I firmly believe they are both heartbroken, and by that token, they are both equally impacted by this.

I don't want either of them to change who they are; to forfeit any happiness in the name of convention; but Oliver has made his choice and I don't know how to reconcile that.  
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I told him once at the very beginning, when he seemed to waver under my maternal scrutiny, that he would be good for Elio, and I still believe that to be so.

But the abrupt and unconscionable way he left all of us (even though he was an ocean away), the sound of his voice through the telephone line brought him right back in this room, and had us all reliving the events of what transpired last summer.  
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🌹  
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My son, who matured so beautifully this past year; went through a very dark period after Oliver left; retreating into himself; then transforming as he, over time, became more invigorated and determined than ever.

But on that night of hearing the overwhelming news, sat away from us as I called out to him.

Elio .. Elio?

And I watched as my son looked into the crackling fire, so sad, so desolate; thinking he's alone in the world.

And this heartbreak he's experiencing is also heartbreaking for us as well; witnessing how devastated he's become at a time when he was so certain of new possibilities, and that again, only time will heal the wound that had already begun to mend over itself after I picked him up in Clusone.  
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🌹  
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Where in the retreating months of summer and into the fall, Elio's determinedness of a happy outcome grew as he so eagerly anticipated the Christmastime telephone call.

His eternal optimism (that before Oliver rarely wavered); was precarious at best, then became more buoyant as his trust in all things good emerged into a burgeoning litany of what it would be like when this fair haired boy returned in the winter.

But this certainty, little prepared him for what ultimately had his faith in the universe crumbling around him.  
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Oliver instead made the decision not to follow his heart but to acquiesce to a predetermined future.

And I know of this now, though Elio's diatribe of how Oliver must have bowed to his father's will, which had his own father and I accepting the profound esteem of our once irascible son.

Our Elio has been quite frank about his feelings for Oliver.

Feelings that had been written all over his face; telegraphing how important they were to each other, how deeply his heart had been given to this other boy who then ultimately destroyed everything Elio thought to be true.

So in the unravelling of this, his father and I were, I'd have to say, somewhat prepared, because we already knew, felt from the beginning this couldn't last.

And while my mother's instinct wants to protect my child from hurt, I also want to see him grow and to challenge any and all expectations; to fly to the sun when the darkness of night threatens to overcome.

And in this, I believe he will soar.  
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But the fact remains that what had been cultivated over a mere six weeks, and burgeoned in front of our eyes, was as real as any other summer romance.

And by the definition of the term, it was perhaps ineluctable that it end.  
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🌹  
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We were always confident Elio would mature into his own man; because even as a child in my arms, and many times in Mafalda's, he has carried a certainty he would attain great things (where idioms referring to worlds and oysters would certainly apply).

And that has not changed. His determination, which from the beginning was primarily positive, has produced a human being free to be who he wants to be; and pronounced in this resolve to never let that forestall his dreams, surpassing any and all expectations of others.  
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🌹  
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Elio will carry with him these precious memories of a time when he found first love, and it was undeniably love, on both sides; because I haven't got to a point in my life when I can't distinguish between projected artifice and the palpability of their true emotions.

So even though Elio's enchantment with our summer student was something he did not want us to discover; and knowing not of the predicated nature of these things, he thought they were keeping it private.

And private it should be. But it was apparent.

And we knew. How could we not?

It was there in plain sight; this draw they had, which unfolded into a feral attraction, one that they needlessly tried to hide under the guise of a tenuous friendship.

And what transpired in front of us, what we witnessed, some people don't realize in a lifetime of searching.

It was wonderful to behold until this older boy made the cruel decision to handle it in a way that shook my son to the core.  
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What we saw blossom, took on what can only be described as, a coming together into one.

Just as one night, when we heard them outside, being sweet and tender.

Finding each other.

Finding themselves.

The bond that only they shared, cemented any resolve my son would have that they should remain together at all costs.

But sometimes that cost is too high.  
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🌹  
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And Oliver was just as captivated, trying to hide behind indifference that nobody believed, save our son as Elio's moods fluctuated as to whether Oliver was in residence or not. The two of them grappling with these new feelings, that perhaps neither of them knew how to deal with, as they both became proficient in guarding their emotions, masking their unsureness.

Elio, who at times seemed far too isolated from his friends, stayed up long past where he usually retired, pacing the floor above, patiently waiting for the flopping of Oliver's espadrilles as he came up the stairs each night.

Then there was Oliver again, consistently burning the midnight oil, perennially absent from dinner without informing anyone, yet still conscientiously showing up in a bedraggled state to help with the never ending sorting of paperwork.

And those girls. Those poor girls.

Caught up in something they couldn't have bargained for while the boys tried to negotiate between what they wanted from each other and what others' wanted from them; participating in this dance of - does he, or doesn't he - should I, and should we? that every young couple goes through at the very beginning of infatuation.  
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🌹  
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My husband once described Oliver as shy, and I can appreciate where he has most likely spent a lifetime cultivating the kind of image he wants the world to see.

But his shyness here was like any other shyness in a boy who becomes fascinated with another, who by these life lessons is protecting himself from hurt.

Where Elio has had little knowledge of shyness, being an only child, his traits sometimes leaned towards, territorial jealousy, which was understandable if not desirable.

And while Oliver, in his hidden shyness has evolved into a perceived extrovert, my son who exhibits little shyness, and is, I believe, more self-actualized, has become a virtual hermit.

So it's wonderful that Oliver was bringing him out of his chosen isolation, including him in things, spending time with him, noticing him, making him happy.

And this extraordinary human who came from me, was enjoying life again.  
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🌹  
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I recall one day as Elio sat away from the terrace playing guitar, seemingly oblivious to our little gathering while he entertained our summer guest, who chose instead to lay near.

And leading him inside, he again showed off, flirting with him really, teasing him with piano variations, he's played from childhood; stepping close to lines society has deemed unacceptable, yet while within the walls of our home was perceived as virtually inconsequential.

But in our acceptance of their budding romance we didn't want him, Elio or Oliver neither, to see that we knew; so we didn't pay attention; not addressing what was happening before our eyes.

And by my observations, it was not just yearning they were experiencing; there was caring too.

And humor.

And yes, lust.

And that carries us to very core of our humanness.  
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So yes there was, 'così tanto amore', so much love, that was 'molto speciale da testimoniare', very special to witness. And because I hope they can still appreciate there was more, it is my wish that they not dismiss their incredible connection, and not turn to characterizing anything as insincere or fraudulent only because it has come to an unhappy conclusion.

Because what was true at the time, existing only for them, had a purpose, a greater meaning, it was beshert.  
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So not to shepherd these feelings, benefits no one.

And I applaud Oliver and my son for taking a chance on what ultimately ignited into a fervid passion, a lusty preamble to more sordid things, that were not really in any way, lewd or immortal, but showed how special it was to be a part of being in a healthy and loving relationship.

And that's exactly what it was. A relationship.  
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My hope for Oliver is that he is happy, and continues to be so.

And Elio too.

That they both continue to love and be loved; never surrendering to society's precise measurements of what people can do and not do, because it is really no one's business but their own.

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🌹  
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So on a day that celebrates mothers everywhere, I in turn celebrate my son, without whom I would never be a mother.

Watching over him for the first time, holding him just after he took his first breaths, loving him more than anything.

And then having to comfort him, my arms circled around; my beautiful child weeping in profound heartbreak.

Telling us of the one.

His first love.

Telling us of Oliver.

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🌹 FIN

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HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY  
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End file.
